


Blurred Lines

by livthelion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, But mostly fluff, Fluff, I definitely will be updating sorry for the long ass wait dealing w personal shit, I mean, I mean rly, If you wanna look at it that way, Infidelity, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Slight Canon Divergence S3, Slow Build, This fic is in no way affiliated with that skeevy song btw, and that's what really matters, but Derek and Stiles aren't the ones cheating on each other, how tf did I forget to tag angst, i guess, jk its def infidelity, run-on sentences are cool, thanks for the patience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 78,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livthelion/pseuds/livthelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He comes to the conclusion that just because he’d finally realized that Derek is attractive—like, ridiculously attractive, he’s kind of embarrassed he didn’t see it before—doesn’t mean that he’s <em>attracted</em> to Derek. </p><p>Yeah, that’s what he’s going with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely rightmovement, who is going to be my beta from now until forever (or until one of us dies). You're a peach c:
> 
> Title taken from 'Wildest Moments' by Jessie Ware
>
>> You and I, blurred lines  
> We come together every time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'This' by Ed Sheeran because I'm a sucker for Ed Sheeran (who isn't), particularly named so for the first line of the song (yeah you know what I'm talking about).
> 
> Initially, this was meant to be some fluffy little crack-y ficlet and it obviously got completely out of hand because I have no self-control, sorry lmao 
> 
> Started this mid-season so 3b will have little to no bearing on this. I basically picked and chose what I wanted to keep and left out things that were too painful to accept (*cough* Boyd *cough*). Hopefully, it's not too difficult to follow haha. If you have any questions just, y'know, ask or yell at me, whatevs. 
> 
> Also, for anyone that is going into this and expecting something brilliant based off the amount of kudos, bookmarks or recommendations: pls lower your expectations :) :) Thank you, that is all.

They’re walking towards the exit that leads to the parking lot at a leisurely pace when Scott and Isaac’s heads snap up at the exact same moment.

Stiles’ stomach drops.

“What? What is it?”

There’s a hint of fear in his voice, but it’s not as if it’s unwarranted. Usually when Scott gets that look on his face it means that things are about to happen. Bad things. Things that Stiles would prefer being left out of.

Not that there’s much chance of that happening.

They don’t answer him. Stiles hovers nervously as they exchange a meaningful look, not even bothering to get irritated over it for once. Nonverbal communication is pretty commonplace nowadays, something that's been happening more and more often since Isaac moved into the McCalls’. Stiles is slowly accepting the fact that he’s not the only man in Scott’s life anymore.

The silence stretches between Scott and Isaac, and by default, Stiles, until Scott eventually nods, answering whatever question is being asked here, (but not aloud, no. It’s not like Stiles should or needs to know what’s happening or anything).

Isaac sighs in obvious distaste for Scott's decision, slumping for an instant before squaring his shoulders and quickly weaving his way through the halls.

“Derek’s here,” Scott finally says.

He starts to follow Isaac and Stiles watches him go, unsure whether he’s supposed to go along or stay put.

Scott turns back, eyebrow quirked in confusion. “You coming?”

Stiles nearly trips over his own feet in his enthusiasm to catch up.

-

They find Isaac outside, staring off into the distance with an odd expression. It sort of seems as if his face is trying to decide whether it’s irritated or amused.

Scott raises an eyebrow and Isaac lifts his chin to gesture at Derek, who is talking to—

“Dude, why is Derek talking to Ms. Blake?” Stiles asks, confused. “And why is he smiling? Derek doesn’t smile, does he? Guys? That’s not actually Derek, is it.”

It’s all coming together now. They’ve brought him along to help discover whoever, _what_ ever, the impostor is.

“What is it? A shapeshifter? A  _robot?”_  Stiles jumps on his toes a little bit to get a better look, practically giddy with excitement.

Isaac rolls his eyes but smiles, amusement briefly winning out. “Oh, that’s definitely Derek,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I think they’re... flirting?”

“Ooh. Right,” Stiles says, nodding like he understands even though he really doesn’t.

He gets the concept of flirting; he just doesn’t really get the concept of _Derek_ flirting. Well, there was that time with that lady cop, but that had been a means to an end, not for realsies.

They watch as Derek gives Ms. Blake a parting smile (which is still weird), and walks toward them, all traces of good humor fading as he draws closer. By the time he reaches them, his usual closed-off expression is in its rightful place and the world is back in balance. 

There’s an awkward minute where Isaac is glaring at Derek and Scott is clenching his uneven jaw at Derek while Derek just stands there, all stiff and clearly out of his comfort zone, saying nothing. It’s kind of like a weird little Mexican standoff. Except without the guns.

Naturally, it’s up to Stiles to break the tension.

He goes with, “So, what’s the sitch?”

Derek gives him a strange look. “I wasn’t aware there was a ‘sitch,’ Kimmy.”

Stiles grins a little, delighted that Derek had caught the reference.

“So why are you here?” Scott asks before Stiles has a chance to talk shit about Derek watching cartoons.

“Just…checking in,” Derek says uncomfortably. His eyes land on Isaac. “Making sure you’re okay.”

“If there’s no sitch—” Isaac catches himself and gives Stiles a look, like, goddammit, Stiles, look what you’ve started, “— _situation_ , then we’re leaving.” He grabs Scott’s arm and hauls him towards Mrs. McCall’s little hoopty, leaving Stiles and Derek staring after them.

Again, Stiles is the one to speak first as Derek, of course, isn’t likely to be the one to do it.

“So.” He nods at Derek. “‘Sup.”

Derek looks at him reluctantly, his expression saying something like, ‘ _why did they leave me here with you; I am extremely irritated that there are witnesses around because if there weren’t, I would most definitely strangle you.’_

Stiles lets out a nervous laugh.

Fortunately, Ms. Blake chooses that moment to (save him) interrupt. “Hey, Stiles. I just finished reading your essay,” she says, smiling.

Stiles grins back. “Was it the best?”

Ms. Blake hums, considering. “Close second. Ms. Martin’s was—”

Stiles groans. “Say no more. Really. I got it.” He has no hope of being first in anything as long as Lydia is breathing. If he didn’t like her so much, he’d consider offing her just to even out the playing field.

...Actually.

“Yours was by far the most entertaining,” Ms. Blake hurries to assure him. “It was very…interesting,” she says with a suppressed smile.

Derek snorts loudly.

Stiles ignores him and shrugs. “That’s what I was going for.”

“You did a good job,” Ms. Blake tells him, and Stiles beams, feeling simultaneously smug and embarrassed.

He’s not used to his teachers complimenting him. They usually just yell at him a lot and/or send him out into the hall where, in most cases, he has a special, little chair reserved just for him. Good times.

They chat for a minute about an upcoming test until someone else calls her attention. Ms. Blake offers a farewell, her smile briefly turning shy as she says her goodbyes to Derek.

Stiles looks between them, at Blake glancing over her shoulder and Derek obviously trying not to watch her as she walks away.

“So,” Stiles says again.

Derek raises his eyebrows.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Just because Derek’s weirdly expressive eyebrows can convey questions as well—maybe even better—than him actually using his words and saying, ‘What?’ can, doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t have to engage in conversation like a normal person, too.

“What’s that all about?” Stiles nods towards Ms. Blake’s retreating form.

“That? That’s nothing.” Derek ducks his head, a light flush coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Right,” Stiles says, ignoring the unfamiliar pang that goes through his gut. “Well, wrap it up, big guy,” he says brightly. “We don’t need any more of your were-spawn running around these parts.” Derek’s brows furrow at him, undoubtedly expressing his disapproval at Stiles’ word choice. “Were-children? Were-babies? Whelps? Cubs? Puppies?”

Derek glares at him and Stiles grins because this,  _this_ is normal. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Catch ya later, Hale.” Stiles claps him on the chest and stumble-runs over to his baby before Derek can kill him.

—

Stiles stops by Lydia’s to bum some Calculus notes off of her and nearly collides with some douche-y looking guy leaving her room. Apparently he was too busy putting on his driving gloves to watch where he was going, so. That’s great.

Stiles pauses just outside, knocking lightly.

Lydia sounds utterly disinterested when she says, “Did you forget something,” not even making an attempt to open the door.

Stiles smirks. At least it didn’t look like Driving Gloves was shaping up to be the next Jackson or anything serious like that.

“Well?” Lydia asks, a touch of impatience creeping into her tone.

“Uhm... No,” Stiles says, “No, I did not.”

There’s a brief pause. “Who is it?”

“It’s Stiles.” Silence. “Uh, Stilinski? Stiles Stilinski from school. I took you to a dance once? Remember?” He laughs awkwardly. “What am I saying, of course you remember; you got bitten by a werewolf and nearly died.” He hears Lydia make an exasperated sound. “Probably wasn’t the  _best_ date you’ve ever had, but at least it was memorable, right.”

“It’s  _open_ , Stiles,” she sighs.

Lydia is straightening up in the mirror. She gives him a perfunctory smile and goes back to fixing her hair. Stiles shuts the door behind him and approaches with caution, glancing around the room as he goes. His eyes stop on a leather jacket thrown carelessly over one of the bed posts.

He picks it up and studies it, nose wrinkling at the wave of cologne that attacks his senses, strong enough to make his eyes water. He hastily puts it back.

“If you’re looking for casual, I could. Do that. Y’know. Casual,” he tells her. He leans against the bed frame, hands carelessly shoved in his pockets, practically _exuding_ casualness.

Lydia raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him in the mirror. “We only just became friends, Stiles. Do you really want to ruin it for something as frivolous as sex?”

Stiles nods immediately, enthusiastically, because hell yeah, he does. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way about her as he used to, he’s not a complete moron; he’s still attracted to her.

Lydia doesn’t look surprised. Maybe a little pleased and even more disappointed, but not surprised. “Well, I don’t.”

Stiles' gaze drops, and wow, his shoes are dirty. There’s a large smudge that looks suspiciously like blood that makes him think he should probably wash his shoes. Or burn them. Yeah, he should probably just cut his losses and burn them.

Lydia grabs him by the chin and gives him a stern look. “It’s not because I don’t like you, Stiles. Because I do,” she says firmly. “Any idiot with eyes can see that you’re a catch. We’re not having sex because I like you _too much_ to ruin what we have by letting you think that it could ever be more than that.”

It sucks a little, a lot maybe, but not as much as it would have a year ago and he appreciates the honesty, even if it’s not necessarily what he’d hoped to hear.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and gives her a self-deprecating smile. “What is your definition of an eye? I have a feeling we’re thinking of two very different things. See, ‘cause I happen to know lots of people with what I have—up to this point—believed to be eyes, and not-a-one has seen what a catch I am.”

Lydia tries not to laugh. “You’ll find someone better, Stilinski.”

“Probably not  _better,”_ Stiles disagrees drily.

Lydia’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Probably not. But someone.”

—

Stiles gets bored easily. It’s a known fact. And left to his own devices, he can get into some pretty serious trouble. Which is why he tries to not be alone as much as possible.

He calls around, looking for something to do. Scott’s his first choice—naturally; that’s his best buddy, homie numero uno—but Scott has, for some reason, decided that he wants to be _responsible_ all of the sudden, and is hitting the books with Isaac. Scott only gets about half of his invitation to join them out before Stiles ends the call in disgust. He wants no part of it. It’s the weekend and there’s no big test coming up; he’s not going to spend his free time studying _,_ of all things.

He tries Lydia next. They’ve been hanging out a lot because if Scott is allowed to have a second best friend then Stiles is, too. He was sort of counting on her to be his savior, except she tells him that she’s hanging out with Allison and that he isn’t invited because they’re having ‘girl time’ (which is a dirty fucking lie because he can hear Boyd in the background) and promptly hangs up on him.

Stiles sighs down at his phone, questioning his life choices, or at the very least his taste in friends.

Somehow, and he’s not ruling out possession, he ends up at Derek’s door with some movies and takeout.

He doesn’t knock because it’s pointless, Derek would have heard him pulling up anyway.

Well, maybe it’s not so much that it’s pointless as it is that he’s a chicken shit and is considering just heading home and enjoying his movies and takeout all by his lonesome.

He’s nodding to himself that, yeah, he should definitely just go, but it’s too late because the door is swinging open and a blank-faced Derek is standing in front of him.

“Heeey, buddy, I was just in the neighborhood— and holyshit, you’re sweaty; what were you  _doing?”_

Derek’s face shifts for a second, amusement curling his lip. It’s gone faster than Stiles can blink, but he knows he didn’t imagine it. His imagination is great and all, but not anywhere near good enough to imagine Derek 'Misery is probably my middle name' Hale  _smiling_ at him. 

“What do you need, Stiles.”

“Nothing, nothing. I just thought I’d pop in, check in on my favorite, broody werewolf, see how you were doing and all that.”

Derek regards him suspiciously, clearly not buying what Stiles is selling. 

Stiles drops the act. “Okay, so obviously this is weird for both of us, but I’m bored as shit and I thought maybe since you don’t have a life and I, currently, just for today, don’t have a life—”

Derek exhales loudly through his nose. “I have a life, Stiles.”

Stiles let's out a high-pitched hum, “Well, that's debatable,” Derek crosses his arms. “But before you tell me to get lost so you can get back to your sad night of brooding alone in the dark; you should know that I brought entertainment.” Stiles holds up the movies proudly, waving them in Derek’s face. 

Derek spares a disinterested glance in their general direction before focusing on the bag in Stiles’ hand.

Stiles holds it up and jiggles it, wiggling his eyebrows. “Oh, and sustenance.”

Derek’s nostrils flare subtly. “Is that from Mr. Lu’s?”

Stiles grins and shoulders his way into Derek’s house.

-

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting on the floor of Derek’s living room with their backs to his shitty couch and containers of food surrounding them, watching Thor.

Stiles watches Jane Foster take the name-tag off her ex-boyfriend’s shirt with a smile. “It’s funny because Donald Blake was Thor’s actual name in the comics,” he tells Derek.

Derek grunts, stirring his lo mein with his chopsticks. “I know.”

“You do?” Stiles asks, voice colored with disbelief. “You read comic books?  _You?”_

Derek bristles at the skepticism in his tone, and then shrugs, deflated. “Laura did.” He goes quiet for a minute, and Stiles is prepared to leave it at that, but then he speaks again. “She dragged me to the movies as often as possible and wouldn’t shut up about the comics. I know all about this shit thanks to her.” Derek’s tone is stuck between irritated and fond, but his expression is almost soft as he talks about his sister.

His sister who is dead and whose body Stiles and Scott dug up for shits and giggles. His sister whose death Derek was arrested for mostly because of Stiles.

“About that,” Stiles starts, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m—”

Derek cuts him off before he can launch into what is sure to be a long and heartfelt apology. “Don’t,” he says, tone short but not harsh, like he’s heading off a conversation he’s not ready to have. “Not like you knew any better.”

Stiles somehow knows Derek means that he understands Stiles can’t help being such a nosy shit and throwing himself into other people’s business, and that Laura’s untimely demise was Peter’s fault anyway. He still kinda feels responsible for putting Derek through all that unnecessary trouble and making him a person of interest and shit, but he feels better knowing Derek doesn’t actually hate him for it.

“Well, she sounds awesome anyway,” Stiles says.

Derek snorts. “Yeah, she certainly thought so.”

They finish off the food in almost comfortable silence. Once Thor ends, Derek puts on Willow, which has been scientifically proven to be one of the best movies in the history of ever.

“My mom loved this movie,” Stiles says. “Used to say I had a crush on Madmartigan,” he remembers with a laugh.

Derek’s lip twitches. “Did you?”

“Hell yeah, dude. He’s freaking sexy in that dress,” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows. Derek snorts. “You disagree?”

“Nah, he pulls it off pretty well,” Derek says easily, and wow, okay, that’s the closest thing Stiles has ever gotten to a decent response from him.

Stiles laughs and digs through the near-empty takeout bag, fishing out two fortune cookies. He tosses one to Derek and tears the other open.

_It’s time for you to explore new interests._

What the hell does that mean?

He looks at Derek, who is staring at his own fortune, ears bright pink. Stiles’ eyes narrow. “What does yours say?”

Derek hastily shoves his fortune into his pocket and gives Stiles an unconvincing shrug. “Nothing.”

Stiles slumps against the couch at his back and crosses his arms, his natural stubbornness bubbling toward the surface. “I’m gonna find out, just you watch.”

Derek smirks at him like he seriously doubts it, but Stiles is resolute. He will find out what that fortune said if it kills him. (But hopefully it doesn’t come to that because Stiles is rather fond of living).

-

“I watched this with my mom when I was a kid,” Derek admits a while later. “My dad got mad and threw the tape out.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, baffled.

“Probably because I was five and I wouldn’t stop calling him a peck.” 

Stiles laughs. “Bet he loved that.”

Derek’s mouth curves down like he’s suppressing a smile. “My mom thought it was funny,” he says. “She just went out and bought another one.”

“Your poor father,” Stiles says with a grin.

Derek snorts. “He got over it eventually.”

“They sound great,” Stiles says. “Your family.” He almost says he wished he could’ve met them, but manages to stop himself before he fucks up this quiet, strange peace between them.

Derek’s gaze meets his, less guarded than Stiles is used to. “Yeah. They were.”

They go back to watching the movie, the silence a bit heavier than it had been before. Stiles thinks about his own mom and wonders how Derek copes with losing so much.

-

Stiles stretches, checking the time on his phone. They’ve just finished the last movie and it’s well past midnight. He’s lucky that his dad’s working a double, otherwise he would’ve been blowing up his phone hours ago.

“Dude, I can’t believe you’d never seen Stargate before,” Stiles says judgmentally. “It’s amazing.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Derek says, voice intentionally flat.

Stiles smirks. He totally loved it.

“I’m just happy I watched it with you this time. I tried watching it with Lydia once and she started talking about theorems and wormholes and  _science._ ” Stiles shudders. “It was pretty bad. I had to get out of there. I mean, I’m smart, but I’m not, like, Lydia smart.” Derek snorts, and starts stacking the empty food containers. 

“She terrifies me,” Stiles admits, grabbing the takeout bag and picking up the napkins and trash. He’s mostly afraid that she’ll take over the world while he’s sleeping and he’ll be forced to bring her coffee five times a day and, like, dress properly. She’s already tried to give him a makeover. Twice _._ In the last week.

“I can see that,” Derek says.

Stiles’ mouth falls open in surprise. “You can?”

Derek gives him a dry look. “She drugged and kidnapped me and then used me to bring my dead uncle back to life. It would be idiotic if I wasn’t a little…wary of her.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, laughing sheepishly. He’d nearly forgotten about the part that Lydia played in Peter’s resurrection. And eventual demise. Again. Because he had died multiple times.

Yeah.

He grasps at a less awkward topic, like something that doesn’t involve the death of Derek’s second to last remaining family member. “Have you seen, uhhh—” he draws it out, trying to think of a movie he likes, “—Due Date?”

“No.”

Stiles holds a hand over his heart as if Derek’s response had physically hurt him. “Oh. Mygod. How have you— What, are you living under a rock?” Derek cocks an eyebrow at him and Stiles backtracks. “Well, I mean obviously you’re not _living under a rock_ , but you have to see it. It’s hilarious.” Derek gives him an unimpressed look and starts to get to his feet.

“Maybe I can bring it next time,” Stiles says casually.

Derek freezes, halfway off the ground. “What makes you think there’s gonna _be_  a next time?”

Good question.

“I’ll bring food?” he offers.

Derek stares at him for a long moment before saying, “No burgers unless you get them from the diner on 8th,” and Stiles grins because that’s definitely not a ‘no’.

Derek rolls his eyes and stands up, a slip of paper falling from his pocket, unnoticed. Stiles waits until he leaves to dump the trash—grumbling under his breath the entire way—to pick it up.

_Unwind and enjoy a frisky romance._

He stares at the fortune for a moment in disbelief before cracking up. He starts choking almost immediately, because it’s Stiles, of course he can’t even laugh right, and Derek comes to investigate.

“What’s—?” Stiles waves the piece of paper at him, wheezing. “That was  _private_ ,” Derek growls, ears flushing again.

“Finders keepers,” Stiles sing-songs. Derek looms over him and makes a grab for the paper, but Stiles holds it out of his reach. “No, you can’t have it! I’m keeping this for memories!”

Derek grabs his wrist and pries it from his hand with a fanged smile. He leans in and growls,  _“Mine,”_ low and threatening.

His grip is hot, and Stiles swears he can feel the warmth spreading from the hand on his wrist to his face. Stiles’ heart thumps unevenly in his chest.  _No, stop that, what are you doing?_  he thinks at it frantically.  _You only do that for—_

Lydia.

_It’s time for you to explore new interests._

Stiles looks into Derek’s beautiful, confused eyes _(beautiful?_  what the hell) and swallows loudly.

Oh, dear God _,_ no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All fortunes are actual fortune-cookie fortunes, and if you don't like Due Date you're _wrong_ (It's okay though, we can work thru this, I accept u and ur obvious insanity) (And yeah I like dumb stoner movies, probably bc I'm a dumb stoner.. I won't apologize) (but im sorry).. Also, Willow is the best and if you haven't seen it you should watch it (I used to have a huge crush on Val Kilmer + Batman Forever is my fave)


	2. You know better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ‘It Will Come Back’ by Hozier. Whatever I thought it was funny haha
> 
> ‘Don't let me in with no intention to keep me  
> Jesus Christ, don't be kind to me  
> Honey, don't feed me; I will come back’

He’s back at Derek’s door the next day with season one of Supernatural (for research purposes, of course) and two boxes of pizza, figuring it’s a safe enough amount for two people. One time he’d showed up at Scott’s with only a single deluxe to split with Isaac and there’d literally been blood. Stiles has since learned his lesson: werewolves don’t play when it comes to food.

He stands on the stoop awhile, debating whether he should knock even though at this point he _knows_ Derek knows he’s there, when he realizes that the choice has, once again, been taken out of his hands.

He shoves his anxiety aside and smiles wide. “You like pizza right?”

Derek raises an eyebrow, but steps aside and lets him in without complaint.

Which is kind of surprising given the fact that the last time Stiles had been there he’d freaked out for apparently no reason at all and then left without so much as an 'okay, bye!'

After he’d calmed down some, he came to the conclusion that just because he’d finally realized that Derek is attractive—like, ridiculously attractive, Stiles is kind of embarrassed he hadn’t seen it before—doesn’t mean that he’s  _attracted_ to Derek. Yes, that’s what he’s going with.

Derek takes the pizza from him and places it on the coffee table, then disappears into an unknown part of the apartment, leaving Stiles standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room. Minutes pass and Stiles shifts from foot to foot, wondering whether Derek is actually going to come back or if he’d escaped through a window or something, forced from his own home in his desperation to get away from Stiles.

That doesn’t make sense, though. Derek would have told him to leave if he wasn’t okay with him being there, wouldn’t he? He’s certainly never had a problem before.

And then Derek is just suddenly _there_. “Drink?”

 _“Holy_ fucking _—_ ” Stiles clutches at his chest and takes a deep breath, trying to convince his heart to keep going, don’t give up on him yet, little buddy.

“A little warning, dude,” he complains once he catches his breath.

Derek’s eyes roll up in his head as if Stiles is being dramatic and should have expected him to just pop up in front of him with absolutely no warning at all _._

He might have a point. One would think that after a year of dealing with all of this supernatural bullshit—werewolves and witches and druids,  _oh my_ —Stiles would be desensitized to certain fantastical creatures and their tendency to scare the living shit out of him without actually trying.

He snaps his fingers. “I’m going to buy you a bell.”

Derek’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be really nice,” Stiles assures him. “I’ll even get your name engraved on it so you don’t have to worry about the other puppies trying to take it from you, kay?”

Derek’s eyes narrow further, they’re nothing but slits now, and he starts doing that nostril-flare thing that he only does when he’s super pissed. Stiles should probably stop while he’s ahead.

“The best part is I won’t have to worry about dying from a heart attack at the age of sixteen  _and_  it’ll brighten up your ensemble,” Stiles says instead. “Two birds; one stone.”

Stiles is pleased with this argument. Derek is…not so pleased.

“Your face, oh my god.”

Derek crosses his arms and glares at Stiles while he laughs like an idiot.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes out eventually. “I’m stopping, I swear.”

He doesn’t.

Derek huffs and advances on Stiles. “Give me that.”

He snatches the dvds out of Stiles’ hands, arching his brow as he glances at the cover, and shoves something cold at him, shaking it impatiently until Stiles gets the hint and grabs it. Derek stalks off, grumbling something about moronic teenagers ruining his life, but Stiles can’t be sure if that’s what he’s actually saying because he’s no longer listening, too busy staring down at the bottle in his hand. He rolls it around in his palm, considering it.

“Is there something wrong with it?” he hears Derek grunt, clearly annoyed.

“No, no. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. Thanks, man,” he says, a little touched.

“It’s just a soda,” Derek says uncomfortably.

“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever gotten me,” Stiles says in his most serious tone, just to bug Derek.

It works. Derek flips him off irritably, which only makes Stiles start laughing again.

“Does it taste alright,” Derek asks flatly after he takes a sip.

Stiles looks from Derek to the bottle in his hand in horror. “Oh god. You didn’t, like, poison it or something, did you?”

Derek’s perpetual frown deepens. “Of course not.”

Stiles looks at Derek in confusion. “Then why—?”

Derek scuffs his feet on the hardwood floor and doesn’t look at him. “I didn’t offer you anything to drink yesterday. You were here a while.”

Stiles blinks. Because Derek had apparently been concerned. About him being thirsty.

In what universe does  _that_ happen.

“I was kind of just surprised that you even let me in your house,” he says honestly.

Derek’s eye twitches. “Technically, you let yourself in.”

“No, no, no. It would only be considered letting myself in if I had opened your door,” Stiles argues, setting his soda on the coffee table and plopping down on Derek’s couch. “Also, you could totally overpower me and, like, throw me around— I mean, throw me  _out,”_  he corrects himself, blushing at the Freudian slip. Not that he had been subconsciously thinking about Derek throwing him around or anything. He’d been decidedly  _not_ thinking about it. He’s not been thinking of anything, no thoughts here!

“If you really wanted to, anyway. I think you secretly enjoy my company,” Stiles says, smirking.

Derek doesn’t answer, just scowls harder and looks like he’s regretting letting Stiles in.

“You don’t have to be ashamed, dude,” Stiles teases. “You can admit that you like me.”

Derek growls and tells Stiles to shut up and get out. Stiles just laughs at him and pulls a slice of pizza from the box, chewing on it obnoxiously until Derek starts up the first episode.

_The Woman In White._

Awesome.

-

Derek likes the show, or at least that’s how Stiles is choosing to interpret it as they get through seven episodes without a single complaint before he decides it’s time to head home. He’s got school in the morning, after all.

Stiles grabs his jacket off the floor where he’d discarded it earlier on, and salutes Derek, heading for the door.

“You’re not gonna take your dvds with you?” Derek asks in confusion.

“Nah, I’ll be back,” Stiles says as he shrugs his jacket on. “No point in hauling them back and forth, y’know?”

He waits for a response, but all he gets is Derek eyeing him suspiciously.

Shrugging, he leaves.

“You better not watch any without me,” Stiles calls over his shoulder.

He thinks he hears a quiet huff of laughter behind him, but doesn’t turn around to check no matter how badly he wants to see whether Derek is smiling or not.

Shit. This is bad, isn’t it.

—

Stiles practically sprints to his jeep after school lets out Friday. He’ll never admit it, but he’s been looking forward to this all week.

His phone buzzes in his pocket while he’s driving to the diner down on 8th street and he ignores it, _obviously._ His father is a cop. Stiles isn’t dumb; he knows that his dad wouldn’t hesitate to put him in a holding cell overnight if he ever caught him texting and driving.

He puts his baby in park and stares at the rundown building—the word ‘dilapidated’ springs to mind, quickly followed by the words ‘health code violation’ and ‘high risk of food poisoning’—wondering if this is really the place that Derek was talking about.

Stiles has never actually been to this particular diner, but Derek said he likes it and Stiles wants to make Derek happy—or maybe just less grumpy than usual—so he’ll have to trust his judgment. For now.

But if he sees anything with more than two legs hanging around inside, he’s out. He doesn’t care if they’re the best fucking burgers in the  _world._

_-_

Thankfully, it’s not as bad on the interior. The booths are worn and the china is chipped, but it’s clean and homey and the woman behind the counter’s smile is warm.

He can see the charm.

He’s waiting for his order to come out—a burger and curly fries for him, two for Derek, a strawberry milkshake for himself and a soda for Derek—when his phone starts vibrating again.

 **Scott - «** **_whered u go Isaac wants a rematch_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_says u cheated last time_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_stiles_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_stiles answer ur phone_** **»**

Stiles snorts.

 **Stiles - «** **_How does someone cheat at Tekken_ ** **»**

**Stiles - « _That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard and I’ve been best friends with you since we were five_ »**

**Scott - «** **D:** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_DICK_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_i hope u choke_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_or step on a lego_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_whichever hurts more_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_im gonna ask isaac if he wants to be my new bff_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **:c** **»**

Isaac - « _what did you do now Scott’s pouting_ »

Stiles grins down at his phone, snickering as he reads through his messages.

Stiles - « _Idk man I didn’t do_ _anything_ :) »

Isaac - « _right_ »

 **Stiles - «** **_I’m just kidding bb you know I love you_** **»**

 **Scott - «**   ** _damn right_**   **»**

He rolls his eyes at the screen.

**Scott - « _dont u roll ur eyes at me_ »**

Stiles sighs, not even bothering to look around the diner. Scott just knows him that well.

 **Scott - « _n u didnt answer my question_** **»**

 **Stiles - «** **_What question_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_dont get cute w me_** **»**

**Stiles - « _But it’s so hard not to_ »**

**Stiles - « :-) »**

**Scott - « :| »**

**Stiles - « O:-) »**

**Scott - « :| »**

**Scott - «** **_u coming or what_** **»**

Stiles stares at the screen, chewing on his finger nails, trying to figure out how to word the phrase,  _‘fuck no,’_ except polite.

And then he remembers that this is Scott he’s talking to and politeness went out the window back in kindergarten when Scott made him sleep on the floor during their very first sleepover (which was at  _Stiles’_ house, by the way. Yeah. Scott had made him sleep on the floor while he slept in Stiles’ bed) because Stiles kept talking in his sleep and it was ‘really annoying, how am I supposed to sleep if you don’t ever shut up, Stiles?’

Scott had gotten used to it and eventually even let Stiles sleep on the bed again, but his point still stands. Politeness isn’t necessary here.

 **Stiles - «** **_Fuck no_ ** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_Boo u whore_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_y the hell not? u have plans with lyd_** **»**

 **Stiles - «** **_Naw. Got a hot date_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_o yeah with who_** **»**

 **Stiles - «** **_Maybe you remember her. Does the name Natalie ring any bells_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_no whos that_** **»**

Stiles smirks to himself, waiting for Scott to get it.

 **Scott - «** **_i asked isaac n he doesnt know either_** **»**

 **Scott - «**   ** _wait_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_isnt that what u named ur left hand in middle school_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_DUDE_ ** **»**

 **Scott - «** ** _thats fuckn gross y would u share that w me_** **»**

 **Scott - «** **_i hate u so much_** **»**

Stiles is (poorly) stifling his laughter when he hears his name.

“I’ve got an order for a, uh, Stiles?” The person holding his bag of food squints at the receipt. “What the hell kinda name is Stiles? What kind of person does that to a child?”

Stiles gets up and approaches the elderly man—Earl, if his nametag is to be believed—at the counter.

“You Stiles?”

He nods sheepishly.

The man looks at him with a mixture of horror and pity. “I am so sorry,” he tells Stiles.

“Stiles is a nickname,” he explains. Earl looks relieved, but then Stiles tells him his real name and he goes back to looking horrified.

He leaves the diner, food in hand and a big smile on his face. Earl had given him a discount. Thank god for awful names and sympathetic geriatrics.

—

Derek looks mildly surprised when he answers the door, as if he wasn’t really expecting Stiles to come back. (Like he wouldn’t. He’d left his Supernatural dvds there, hello.)

“Heya, pal,” Stiles says, smiling brightly. Derek narrows his eyes, expression filled with suspicion.

“You’re back.”

Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes. He’d rather not die today. “Yes, thank you, Captain.” He claps Derek on the shoulder and walks inside.

Derek stands in the doorway looking lost. “Captain?”

“Yeah, as in Obvious,” Stiles says absently, looking around. “Hey, where’d you put the— Oh,  _fu-!”_  He skitters back, because Derek had of course chosen to stand directly behind him instead of glaring from across the room like a normal person.

“I’m pretty sure glaring at you from anywhere is normal,” Derek says, tone dry.

Stiles is about 75% sure that he hadn’t said any of that out loud. Derek must have developed—dramatic pause— _mind powers._

“I didn’t develop mind powers, moron. And you said  _all_  of that out loud. Just an FYI.” Derek pries the carryout from his hand and sits down on the couch, throwing his feet up so there’s no room for Stiles.

He tries to pick up Derek’s legs, but Derek won’t budge.

“Where am Isupposed to sit?” Stiles whines.

Derek points to the floor.

“Oh, that is—” Stiles huffs and plops himself down, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the tv screen.

They watch the first few minutes of episode eight—it’s the one with the bugs and the kid that played Samandriel in season eight—in silence.

Which isn’t unusual. Believe it or not, Stiles  _can_ be quiet for extended periods of time—when sufficiently entertained, anyway. But the silence between him and Derek isn’t usually so awkward.

Derek holds a hamburger in front of Stiles’ face as a sort of peace offering. Stiles pointedly ignores Derek and his stupid peace offering and stares straight ahead, pretending he doesn’t see it.

Derek sighs like Stiles is being difficult, which, no, _Stiles_  is not the difficult one here. It’s Derek, with his stupid face and eyes that are literally burning a hole through the back of Stiles’ thick skull.

“Just take the burger, Stiles.”

He shakes his head stubbornly.

“Take. The damn. Burger. Stiles.”

“No.”

Derek growls. “Why are you even  _here.”_

Stiles tenses. “You want me to leave?”

Derek growls again, this time in frustration. “I didn’t say that. I’m— just trying to figure out why you keep coming back.”

Stiles checks his face to see if he means it, that he doesn’t want him gone, and takes the burger out of Derek’s hand.

“I’m just here to hang out and bask in your sunny disposition.” He smiles at Derek and turns back around, takes a bite of his burger and dear God in _Heaven,_ he will never doubt Derek’s word again. But just about food.

The look Derek gives him is skeptical. Stiles can’t see it, because he’s, y’know, on the floor and facing the tv, but he can  _feel_ the skepticism coming off him.

“No, really. Why are you here. You have friends, I  _know_  you have friends. I save their asses on a regular basis,” Derek says drily.

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, and I see them all the time. I just hung out with Scott and Isaac last night. Kicked both their asses at Tekken.” And then they’d picked him up mid-victory dance and thrown him out of the house. Sore-ass losers.

“Okay,” Derek says. It’s not an ‘okay,’ like ‘I accept your reasoning,’ it’s an ‘okay, now continue telling me why the fuck you’re here.’ Stiles can tell the difference. He’s very perceptive that way.

“I like hanging out here,” Stiles says honestly, carefully avoiding Derek’s gaze. “It’s not as…tiring.” He’s not explaining it right. He doesn’t mean that spending time with Scott and Lydia is tiring—although, maybe he does, Lydia had tried to give him yet another makeover on Tuesday, this time raiding his closet while he wasn’t home (she’d had a key made; he now understands why Mrs. McCall was upset when he’d done it) and donating half of his clothes to the Salvation Army just because they ‘didn’t fit him anymore’ and were ‘falling apart at the seams’ or were ‘too hideous to even look at, Stiles’.

It’s just that when he’s with Derek, there’s no one peppering him with questions about how he’s doing or what he’s doing or what he  _wants_ to do. And it’s just. Less tiring.

Because Derek doesn’t expect anything from him, doesn’t  _want_  anything from him. (That shouldn’t make him frown, should it? He’ll look into that later). He can just be. He can eat ridiculous amounts of food and watch awesome movies and tv shows and just be there. With Derek. Which is unexpectedly a pro instead of a con.

Turns out, he actually likes Derek when they’re not fighting for their lives or screaming at each other about whose plan is better or trying to throw each other under any metaphorical buses. Basically, you take away the life or death situations and trying to keep a gang of overly emotional teenagers in line on top of that, and they get along pretty well.

It’s...easy. It makes sense somehow.

He hears Derek moving around behind him and a moment later, there’s a foot nudging him in the back.

“Hmm?” Stiles asks around another mouthful of burger. God, that’s good.

Derek nudges him again. Stiles turns his head to the side curiously. Derek nods to the other side of the couch where he’s removed his feet and made room for Stiles to sit.

Stiles grins and scrambles to his feet, flopping down next to Derek. “Thanks, man. My ass was starting to hurt.” Stiles takes another bite of his burger and then realizes what he’d said. “I mean, because of the hard wood.”  _Not better._ He flushes and stammers, “I mean the floor. Hurt my ass. Yeah.” He bites back a curse.

He’s so  _lame_.

But Derek just snorts and goes back to devouring his food, obviously choosing to take this as typical Stiles behavior.

Stiles settles in, content, and watches Matt/Samandriel/Alfie play with his bugs.

—

It’s not until Stiles is home, about to fall asleep, that he realizes what Derek had done.

Stiles bolts upright. “Oh, that  _bastard.”_

He whips out his phone and angrily texts Derek.

 **Stiles - «** **_I KNOW WHAT YOU DID_** **»**

He fumes silently, waiting for Derek to respond. Just when he thinks that Derek is going to ignore him, his phone chimes.

 **Derek - «** **_?_** **»**

Stiles scoffs at his phone. Typical Derek.

 **Stiles - «** ****_Just because there is a question in the word ‘question-mark’ doesn’t mean it counts as an actual question Derek_** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_And you know damn well what you did!_** **»****

 **Derek - « _I don’t know what you’re talking about._** ****»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_YOU DRANK MY MILKSHAKE_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_You texted me at 3 o’clock in the morning to bitch about your milkshake_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_Which I drank seven hours ago by the way_**** **»**

 **Stiles - «** ****_So you admit to it!_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_It was delicious_** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_Don’t talk about it like that, the wound is still too fresh_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_Go to sleep idiot_** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_YOU go to sleep_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_I intend to_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_As soon as you shut up and leave me alone_** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_You say the sweetest things sometimes_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_Still waiting for you to shut up_** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_Yeah, yeah. I didn’t want to talk to you anymore anyways_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_Oh no how will I go on_** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_Funny._** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_Night, asshole_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_Leave me alone_** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_I’ll text you in the morning_** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_Please don’t._** **»****

 **Stiles - «** ****_Sweet dreams, buddy_** **:-D** **»****

 **Derek - «** ****_Really, Stiles you don’t have to text me in the morning_** **»****

Stiles gives an evil laugh and turns out his light.

—

He texts Derek in the morning.

—

And continues texting him throughout the week.

 **Stiles - «** **_Seriously, though. When are we ever going to use calculus in real life_** **»**

 **Derek - « _It doesn’t hurt to know_** **»**

 **Stiles - «** **_Oh god. You’re a closet math geek aren’t you_** **»**

 **Stiles - «** **_Derek Hale, werewolf extraordinaire and secret math wiz_** **»**

 **Derek - «** **_I’m changing my number_** **»**

 **Stiles - «** **_No you’re not. How would the rest of the puppies get a hold of you_** **»**

 **Stiles - «** **_You’re frowning with your eyebrows right now, aren’t you lol_** **»**

 **Derek - «** **_Shut up, Stiles._** **»**

Stiles is smirking at his phone, fingers flying as he types out (yet) a(nother) witty response, when the back of his neck tingles like someone’s watching him.

He looks up and finds that someone  _is_ watching him, and that someone is none other than Lydia Martin. Who is getting out of her seat on the other side of the classroom, beady little hawk eyes zeroed in on the vacant chair to his immediate left.

_Shit, shit, shit._

“Who are you texting.” It should be a question, because there’s a  _‘who’_ in there, but the way Lydia delivers it makes it clear that it’s really  _not._

“Uh…Scott?” Stiles curses himself mentally and avoids Lydia’s gaze.

_Play it cool. It smells fear._

“I’m texting Scott. Scott McCall. My best friend. Who has been my best friend since I was a wee child. Funny story, how we met. Have you heard this, I don't think you have,” he says hastily before Lydia can actually answer.

“It was kindergarten and we were on the playground. I fell—I’m sure you’re shocked given how graceful I am now—and cut my knee. So, Scott runs up to save me,” because even as a child, the guy had a serious hero complex, “and sees that I’m bleeding, which, naturally, leads to him pulling a suture kit out of his backpack and saying he’s gonna fix me and not to worry ‘cause he’s seen his mom do it lots of times.

“He didn’t get much further than bringing out the needle because someone started screaming—totally not me, by the way—and a teacher pulled him off of me and sent us both to the principal’s office. We got to talking about our favorite show, Chip and Dale: Rescue Rangers, while we were waiting for our parents to show up and we’ve been attached at the hip ever since,” Stiles finishes with a bright smile, hoping that Lydia will accept his diversionary anecdote and leave well enough alone.

Lydia narrows her eyes at him.

Stiles may or may not start sweating.

“God, is it hot in here or is that just me?” He fans himself with his notebook and looks anywhere but Lydia.

“Stiles.” It’s funny how she can make his name sound like a warning.

“It’s Derek. I’m texting Derek,” Stiles blurts, immediately, pathetically, cracking under the pressure.

Lydia’s eyes widen with interest.  _“Really.”_  She smiles.

Stiles does not like that smile. That smile needs to stop.

“Stop it, Lydia.”

“Stop what?” she asks innocently.

“I don’t like the look in your eye. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who are you texting? Are you telling Allison? Don’t tell Allison. Lydia. Lydia?”

She continues ignoring him and Stiles sighs.

“You’re telling Allison, aren’t you,” he says glumly.

Lydia locks her phone and tucks it into her purse. “Of course not. You’re being paranoid.”

—

Stiles was not being paranoid.

Allison and Boyd sit down on either side of him in History. “So, are you and Derek, like, friends now?” Allison asks.

Boyd doesn’t say anything, but he’s leaning towards Stiles, obviously waiting for an answer as well.

Stiles blames himself for this. Sticking Boyd and Allison together on a vampire stake out (ha,  _stake_  out. Vampires, get it?) was the worst idea he’d ever had. They’d move past the, ‘you shot me and my dead girlfriend full of arrows, but then I tried to kill you so I guess we’re even,’ to the ‘Best friends forever, best friends forever,  _club!’_

Allison pinches his arm.  _“Stiles!”_

He squeals in pain. Apparently, he’d spaced out when he was supposed to be answering a question. Or  _avoiding_ answering a question.

“No. No, of course we aren’t. We’re mortal enemies,” Stiles says, playing it down with a scoff and a roll of his eyes.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, Boyd?”

“Werewolf.”

“Ahh.” He’d nearly forgotten that Boyd could tell when he was lying with his super cool were-powers! and shit.

“Okay, yeah, me and Derek are friends, so what? I can have friends other than you guys and Scott.” He straightens out his papers and stares at the whiteboard. If he can’t see them, they can’t see him and his stupid blushing face.

Allison and Boyd exchange a look.

—

“Why are you telling people we’re friends,” Derek says, frowning.

Stiles glances at Derek from his position on the couch and goes back to playing this stupid game called Ruzzle on his phone. They’re waiting until the takeout arrives to start up Supernatural (they’re just about to start the third season— _Mystery Spot_ , what  _whaaat)_.

“Uh, because we are?”

Derek’s expression goes from slightly confused to baffled. “No, we’re not. How are we friends.”

Stiles sighs and pauses his game, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch and sitting up. He gives Derek a very serious look. “Derek. I’ve been coming to your house every weekend for the past month. We are marathoning Supernatural together. I provide you with food and pleasant company and you provide me with your cheerful outlook on life and a sparsely decorated apartment to lounge around in. We’re friends.”

Stiles watches Derek’s reaction, waiting for that to sink in. Realization seems to dawn, and Derek’s mouth falls open slightly in horror. Stiles nods, satisfied that Derek now understands that they are indeed amigos, and lays back down, un-pausing his game.

A while later, someone bangs on the door.

Stiles looks at Derek, who’s still standing in the same spot he’d been in when Stiles had given him  _The News_ _._ Which was a while ago.

“Uh, are you gonna get that, buddy?” Stiles hints. “It’s probably the food.”

Derek starts, like he hadn’t heard the person at the door, which is highly unusual because he’s pretty much always on red alert. He answers the door and pays the delivery boy, skulking back into the living room and woodenly handing the goods over to Stiles.

Derek spends the evening halfheartedly picking at his food and warily side-eyeing Stiles instead of paying attention to Sam and Dean’s displays of anger and angst as he should be. He disappears in the middle of the third episode of season three— _vampires_ —and doesn’t return.

Stiles sighs and shuts everything down, cleans up the takeout and puts the leftovers in the fridge for Derek to eat later.

He shrugs his hoodie on and pauses at the front door. “See you next week, Derek.”

Derek doesn’t answer him, but Stiles knows he hears.

—

“I can’t believe you told Derek that I told you that Derek and I are friends!” Stiles rants.

Boyd gives him a sheepish smile.

—

Derek is more or less his usual sunny self the next time Stiles goes over. They fall back into their routine of eating, working their way through the seasons of Supernatural and bitching at each other.

Stiles catches Derek looking at him weird sometimes. Like he’s still not sure exactly why Stiles is there.

It takes an entire month for Derek’s wariness to be replaced by resignation, though occasionally his distrust chooses to rear its’ ugly head.

Like now, for instance.

“Are you trying to fatten me up?” Derek asks him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Stiles looks at him like he’s crazy. “Why would you think that?”

Derek furrows his brows at him accusingly. “You keep on increasing the amount of food you bring me. What are you trying to do, make me a human sacrifice? I knew this arrangement was fucking weird.”

Stiles throws up his hands. “Okay, one: that doesn’t even make sense. You sound like an insane person right now. Two: you’re a werewolf, dude, so even if I  _was_  interested in making a human sacrifice, you wouldn’t exactly qualify. And three: no one’s forcing you to eat, Derek! If it’s too much; don’t eat it!”

“Then stop bringing so much, Stiles!”

He chucks a throw pillow at Derek’s head. “You’re so  _infuriating!”_

Derek catches the pillow easily and glares. “Oh,  _I’m_ infuriating?”

Stiles looks at him incredulously.  _“Yes.”_

They spend the rest of the day bickering over  _everything._

Even dumb things like whether they should put the subtitles on (Derek) or just turn the volume up (Stiles).

It only gets worse when they run out of food. Both of them irritable and hungry and in an enclosed space, together? No, not good for anyone.

Stiles tells Derek that they should order something in before they kill each other and Derek replies that maybe Stiles should get off his lazy ass and go get them burgers from Earl’s (turns out that little old man’s name  _was_ actually Earl and he kind of owned the diner).

Stiles grudgingly agrees that burgers sound good, but they have to play rochambeau to see who’s going to get the food because Stiles refuses to give in to tyranny. Derek loses, but bitches so much that Stiles finally agrees to go if Derek drives.

Unsurprisingly, they spend the drive over bickering, as well.

Stiles complains that Derek is  _‘going_   _too fast, oh my god do you want my dad to pull us over, he will write both of us a ticket’_  — _‘You’re not even driving, Stiles’_ — _‘You really think that will stop him’_  and  _‘Now you’re going too slow, Finstock’s dead grandmother drives faster than you,_  christ’ which gets him a  _‘Fuck you, you can drive your goddamn self next time’_  in return.

It’s fun, comfortable like how Stiles feels with Scott, except not because—just because.

—

Stiles waits outside a few minutes before he gives in and texts Derek. It’s November and he’s from California. He can only handle waiting around in forty degree weather for so long. He juggles the food around and taps out a quick message.

**Stiles - « _Knock knock_ »**

Derek seems surprised when he sees Stiles, like he suddenly forgot that Stiles comes over two to three times a week. Or maybe he’s just surprised because it’s nine in the morning on a Saturday and Stiles hadn’t told him that he was coming over this early,  _whoops._

“What the hell?” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t think he actually meant to say it if the frustrated face he makes after is anything to go by.

He takes in Derek’s appearance, the rumpled hair and the pajama pants and t-shirt and the way his eyes are narrowed, not in their usual manner, but like they’re trying to simultaneously stay open and block out the light.

“You were sleeping,” Stiles surmises. “And I woke you up. Shit, I’m sorry, man. I can come back later?” He doesn’t really mean it as a question, but his voice goes up on the last word and he’s not actually trying to leave, so he can see how that could’ve been misconstrued.

Derek squints at him for a moment, and then his nostrils flare, his eyes widening a fraction. “Food?” he asks, hope creeping across his expression.

“And coffee,” Stiles says, holding a carrying tray up.

“Coffee,” Derek grunts like that settles it. He steps back and lets Stiles in, ushering him towards the kitchen and motioning for Stiles to put everything down on the island in the middle of the room.

Stiles pulls the breakfast burritos and salsa out of the carryout bag while Derek sets himself down in the seat next to him and yawns aggressively. Derek is apparently not much of a morning person.

Stiles divvies up the food and pushes half of it over. “Late night?” he asks, mostly to make sure Derek stays awake and partially because he’s curious.

Derek smiles to himself, but doesn’t answer. He nods to the coffee. “Which one’s mine?”

Stiles picks the one he’d ordered for Derek from the tray and hands it over. Derek murmurs his thanks and takes a sip.

He makes a face. “Black?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Why would you bring me black coffee?” Derek asks, looking at Stiles as if he’s betrayed him in some terrible way.

“I dunno, you seem like a black coffee kind of guy,” Stiles says, hiding a laugh behind his cup.

Derek glares at him and shuffles about the kitchen, pouring his coffee into a larger cup before coming back to the island with milk and sugar. Stiles watches in awed horror as Derek dumps what has to be close to a cup of sugar into his coffee and pours a half gallon of milk in after it.

Derek stirs his… _concoction_ —Stiles isn’t going to call it coffee because at this point, it really isn’t—and takes a drink, humming happily at the results.

Stiles is staring at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“What?” Derek asks, defensive.

“Can you even taste the coffee?”

Derek rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his milk-with-a-side-of coffee.

“No, seriously. Were you planning on having some coffee with that sugar?”

Derek puts his not-coffee down and huffs. “What are you, some kind of coffee snob. What’d you get then?” He grabs Stiles’ coffee before Stiles can stop him and takes a drink. Derek hands his cup back with a smirk. “You have no room to talk. Yours is just as sweet and weak as mine.”

Stiles cradles his coffee to his chest protectively. “I didn’t say that I didn’t take mine the same way. I’m just judging you for it because I know it’s wrong.”

Derek laughs and tucks into his breakfast.

Stiles decision to go to Derek’s more frequently in the mornings has nothing to do with the way his stomach flips when Derek smiles at him. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SN: I know a while back I said I quit playing ruzzle. I lied. I lied so hard.
> 
> Captain’s Log July 16th 11:32 P.M. Spent the evening crying into a cup (and by cup I mean a pot) of coffee because _they killed my baby, Boyd!_ Why god why take me instead
> 
> We’re just going to pretend that Boyd lives forever, shhhhhh 
> 
> I’m never doing another canon compliant fic fuck that shit, first Erica and now Boyd I can’t do it
> 
> Captain's Log July 16th 2:29 A.M. I just realized that I make a lot of Sponge Bob references. Like, both in my fics and in real life. I should probably stop (but I woooon't)
> 
> Captain's Log July 16th 4:06 A.M. Sometimes I read really long fics and they start off great, but then they get progressively worse and worse, yet I can't stop reading because usually by the time I realize that I really _should_ just stop; I'm 50k words into it and there's no point in turning back. So then when I've finally finished, I end up leaving kudos anyway, but it's not really a 'wow, this is a really good fic' kudos it's more of a 'I'm rewarding myself for reading your awful, hundred thousand word fic and this is my badge of honor' kudos


	3. I’m not ready (for the weight of us)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So just a quick recap, Boyd is alive and is going to live forever and Derek's Camaro hasn't mysteriously gone AWOL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from ‘The Weight of Us’ by Sanders Bohlke  
> 

The door swings open and an extremely sullen Derek stands before him.

“I thought my weekdays were safe.”

“They are now,” Stiles tells him solemnly. “Now that I’m here.”

Derek scowls harder, looking like he is seriously regretting answering the door.

Stiles clasps his shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’m gonna save you.”

“From  _what?”_ Derek asks exasperatedly.

“The monotony of everyday life,” Stiles answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m moving,” Derek says.

Stiles laughs. “No, you’re not.”

Derek sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair. “No, I’m not,” he agrees tiredly, holding the door open a little wider.

Stiles steps around him with a smile.

—

The second time Stiles shows up at Derek’s on a week day, Derek doesn’t react at all. He just flings the door open and walks away.

He doesn’t shut it behind him, though, so Stiles will take the gesture for what it is.

Which is  _acceptance._

Derek doesn’t ask him why he’s there and, astonishingly enough, doesn’t even seem to mind. Not that Stiles really has a solid reason for coming over, other than it was relatively early—eight o’clock on a Wednesday—and he was bored.

Derek settles in on his side of the couch and flips the tv on. Stiles hovers for a moment, until Derek shoots him an impatient look. “Are you going to come sit down or are you just going to stand there all night looking like a moron.”

“I’m not gonna let you bring me down today, Sunshine. I have been reliably informed that I presently look acceptable,” Stiles says primly.

Derek snorts lightly. “Oh, yeah? By who.”

Stiles tries not to be offended by the disbelieving tone. “Lydia. She said, and this is a direct quote, ‘I suppose you don’t look completely horrible.’”

She’d also said that he would’ve looked much better if he’d done something about the rats’ nest on top of his head he calls hair, but details.

“Coming from Lydia, that’s like saying I look freaking sexy, dude.”

Given, she’d only kind of complimented him in the first place because he’s wearing the clothes she’d forced upon him instead of the usual layers-upon-layers look he’s spent the better part of his youth perfecting.

He would very much  _like_  to be wearing his usual layers because a) it’s freaking cold out and b) the sweater Lydia had gotten him made him look hot, sure, but is also extremely thin which brings Stiles back to point a) it’s  _freaking cold out_ —but unfortunately all of his normal clothes are either in dire need of a wash or are waiting to be/have already been purchased at the local Salvation Army. Which he still hasn’t forgiven Lydia for (even if she might’ve had a few valid points; his newer clothes fit much better).

Derek looks at him, studying his attire thoughtfully.

“What’s the verdict,” Stiles asks, wiggling his eyebrows like a dork to draw attention away from his embarrassment and the unsightly blush he can feel spreading low across his cheeks.

Derek’s gaze snaps back to Stiles’ face when he realizes that he’s been caught staring—because by some miracle, Derek Hale now realizes that staring at people unblinkingly for long periods of time is weird—and turns his attention back to the tv.

“Well,” Stiles prompts, enjoying Derek’s sudden discomfort.

“She was lying, you still look like a moron,” Derek grumbles. It’s lacking bite, so Stiles lets it slide with little more than a small huff of amusement.

He wanders into Derek’s kitchen and grabs himself a can of soda pop, another for Derek and wanders back. He tosses a can at Derek, who—annoyingly—catches it without looking up. Werewolves and their stupid reflexes.

Stiles pushes aside his feelings of inadequacy and says, “What do you feel like having? You didn’t already eat, did you?” He snorts and answers his own question. “Why do I even bother, of course you didn’t.”

“I could’ve eaten already,” Derek says resentfully.

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” Stiles says confidently. Derek scowls. “So what’ll it be?”

Derek puts aside his annoyance to consider. “Haven’t had Chinese in a while.”

“If by a while, you mean less than a week,” Stiles says under his breath, already pulling his phone out and hitting speed dial number 6.

Derek growls at him and says, “Just order the food, idiot.” Which, for whatever reason, makes Stiles smile, but that’s something to worry about at a later time.

-

They’re a couple episodes into season six (soulless Sam), the food long gone, when Derek tosses a fortune cookie at Stiles, which he surprisingly catches. With his face.

He rubs his temple and elbows Derek in the side. “Jerk.”

“This is where I’d say ‘bitch,’ right,” Derek deadpans. Stiles elbows him again, laughing this time, and opens his fortune.

_Your natural charm will attract someone special._

“Why must the fortune cookie lie to me,” Stiles sighs.

Derek opens his cookie and snorts, giving Stiles a pointed look. “Mine’s spot on.”

Stiles holds his fortune out without looking over and accepts Derek’s, which reads:

_A challenge is near._

“Oh, very funny, jackass,” Stiles says, laughing despite himself.

“Told you mine was spot on,” Derek says, smirking. “Yours, though,” he shakes his head mockingly, handing it back.

Stiles kicks him in the shin. “I could  _too_ attract someone special with my natural charm!”

Derek laughs outright.

“You’re so much nicer when you’re suffering from sleep deprivation,” Stiles grumbles. “I have no idea why I continue to subject myself to this.”

Derek sobers. “Yeah. Me either.”

Stiles stares at Derek staring at his hands in confusion, not even really remembering what he’d said, his mouth just goes off on autopilot sometimes. “Wh-”

Derek looks at him suddenly, giving him a tight, little smile. “It’s late, you have school in the morning.”

Stiles glances at the clock on his phone, instantly distracted. “Crap, it’s nearly twelve! Why didn’t you say something earlier, Jesus _,_ Derek, _way to drop the ball.”_ He hops up and grabs his keys off the coffee table.

“Yeah, I’ll just clean all this up then,” Derek says.

“Cool, thanks,” Stiles says as he heads for the door.

“Stiles. I was being sarcastic.”

“You were not being sarcastic, I know it. You were offering to clean up after both of us out of the goodness of your little werewolf heart,” Stiles says solemnly. “Bless you.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just get out.”

Stiles grins and runs from the house, throwing a quick, “Night, Derek! See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder.

He thinks he hears a disgruntled, “No, you will  _not.”_ follow him out, but he’s been told he has an active imagination.

—

Scott jumps out at him.

_“Stiles!”_

“Oh, fuhh—” Stiles throws his hands up to shield his face, dropping them when he sees it’s just his dipshit best friend, who has apparently decided that his life wasn't exciting enough already and is now trying to give him a heart attack to spice things up. “Goddammit, Scott, are you trying to  _kill_ me,” he wheezes.

Scott grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. “Where have you been, man? I feel like I haven’t seen you in  _forever.”_  He pulls Stiles close, giving him a tight hug.

“What are you talking about? We have, like, three classes together,” Stiles says, patting his back. “And also lunch,” he adds.

Scott pulls away to frown at him. “Yeah, but I mean outside of school. You hardly come over anymore.”

This would be the perfect time for Stiles to tell Scott that he’s been hanging out with Derek. Perfect time.

“I’ve just been around,” he says instead. “Y’know, sitting by my phone, waiting for you to call,” he says wistfully. “You never do, but I guess you knew that.”

Scott punches his arm, laughing. “You do not.”

“Ow. Human, bro,” Stiles reminds him, clutching his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Scott says, ducking his head in that familiar,  _‘aw shucks’_  way. “I forget sometimes.”

“That I’m human or that you’re a wolf?”

Scott thinks. “Both,” he says after a while, giving Stiles a dopey smile.

Stiles ruffles his hair fondly. “Never change, Scotty.”

His best friend gives him a look. “But I have to, Stiles, I don’t think you understand how difficult it is to resist on the full moon.” Stiles stares, dumbfounded, until Scott breaks into a wide grin.

Stiles shakes his head in mock disappointment. “When’d you get to be such a smart ass?”

“You’ve missed a lot, Isaac says I got funnier,” Scott proudly informs him. “I think it’s because you’re not around as much so I feel the need to compensate,” he adds mournfully. Stiles knows he’s not  _trying_ to make him feel bad, but he feels kind of shitty anyway.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m  _never_ around,” Stiles tries.

Scott just gives him another look. “Lydia’s been to the house twice in the last week. She never comes over.”

Ooh. She really doesn’t. This is a little not good.

“Maybe it’s because she likes spending time with you and Isaac,” Stiles suggests weakly.

“Maybe it’s because she misses you,” Scott counters, and then, “I know I do.”

 _“Aw,_  Scotty.” Stiles drags him in for another hug, one that Scott exuberantly returns. “I’ll come over after school. We can watch crappy horror flicks all night like old times.”

Scott lights up. “Promise?” he asks excitedly.

“Of course, buddy.”

Scott picks him up and squeezes so tight, he can feel his ribs digging into his lungs. He’s almost certain they’re not supposed to do that.

“Get a room,” someone shouts at them down the hall.

Scott sets him down and they both angrily look around for the perpetrator. Ugh, it’s that smarmy jerk from Econ. Stiles knew there was a reason he didn’t like him.

“Maybe we will!” Stiles yells back.

“Yeah, fuck you!” Scott yells.

Stiles sends him a dry look. “I see your newfound hilarity doesn’t extend to comebacks.”

Scott grins sheepishly.

—

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **Looks like I’m not gonna make it tonight**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **Ok**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **Probably not tomorrow either. I’m staying at a friend’s**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   ** _Don’t worry_** _ **I’ll make it up to you**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **There’s nothing to make up. I don’t care.**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **Don’t lie, you’re secretly crushed**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **Idiot**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **Have fun with that other idiot, McCall**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **How do you know I’m staying at Scott’s I could be staying somewhere else**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **Right. Like anyone else can tolerate hanging out with you that long**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **You tolerate me**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **Barely**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **Jerk**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **This is where I’d say bitch right**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **That was about as funny as it was the first time**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **And you laughed the first time, too.**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **Point.**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **What does that make, a thousand**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **Something close to it**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **See you Sunday**_ **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   _ **Don’t care**_ **»**

 **Stiles -** **«**   _ **LIAR**_ **»**

“Who’re you texting?” a bright voice asks.

Stiles squeaks and flails away from Allison, who has somehow gotten right up in his space without him noticing. Looks like he isn’t as observant as he thought. Damn, and he really wanted to be the next Shawn Spencer.

“N-no one,” Stiles stutters, tucking his phone in his pocket.

Allison smiles. “Aw, you’re blushing.”

“Must be Derek,” Boyd adds.

Stiles jumps, and clutches his chest. “For fuck’s- Don’t you two sit on the other side of the class? I thought there was a seating chart. There’s a seating chart, right—?” Boyd bats the hand that had been signaling their History teacher out of the air with a roll of his eyes.

“He’s being defensive,” Allison tells Boyd.

“He must think we’re dumb,” Boyd answers.

“I’m not being defensive!” Stiles says, not at all defensively.

They give him identical knowing looks.

Stiles throws his arms up, giving up on life.

—

It’s great, hanging out with Scott again, doing bro things—like kicking Scott’s ass on Mario Kart and lounging around in sweats, eating all of the food in the house and then getting yelled at by Mrs. McCall for both eating all their food and making a mess in the process. He’d nearly forgotten how nice it was.

This has been his second home since his Mom first started getting sick.

Scott nudges him in the side, distracting him from his momentary nostalgia. “C’mon, dude,” he whispers. “Let’s get out of here before she makes us clean.”

Stiles nods in agreement. “Now?”

Scott peers over his shoulder, making sure his mom is out of sight. “Now.”

Both of them stealthily—oh, so stealthily—get to their feet and casually stroll to the staircase.

 _“Get back here and clean this mess up, you little shits,”_ Mrs. McCall barks, appearing out of thin air.

They make a break for it, giggling (like the children they are) the entire way to Scott’s room. Scott slams the door shut behind them and they collapse in a heap on top of his bed.

“Oh, man. It’s been a while since your mom’s yelled at us like that,” Stiles laughs, out of breath.

“We’re gonna have to go back down there or she won’t let us eat dinner,” Scott says ruefully. He’s not even breathing hard, the werewolf asshole.

“I know,” Stiles sighs. He perks up, “Ooh, when’s Isaac getting back from Boyd’s? He can help, and by help I mean clean the entire living room by himself.”

“You’re diabolical,” Scott says admiringly. “I like this plan.”

“What are friends for,” Stiles replies, smirking.

-

They actually do get Isaac to agree to clean the living room for them when he gets home, and it goes well right up until Mrs. McCall sees what he’s doing and makes them help on pain of death.

He feels kind of bad that he doesn’t tell Scott about Derek, but he doesn’t worry about it too much. He’s sure it’ll come up soon enough.

—

Stiles lifts his hand to knock on the door.

“It’s open.”

Apparently, Derek no longer feeling the need to get up and open the door for him is gonna be a regular thing because he’d done this last time, too.

Stiles walks inside, glancing around warily. “Is this a trap? Because it feels like a trap.”

He hears Derek exhale heavily. “Just shut the door, Stiles.”

He’s lying in the middle of the living room, coffee table and couch shoved aside to make more room for whatever it is werewolves do when no one else is around. He drags himself into a sitting position and scoots until his back hits the sofa.

“You didn’t even ask who it was this time,” Stiles accuses disbelievingly. “I could’ve been here to kill you!” He takes off his hoodie, throwing it over the back of the couch, and plops down on the floor next to Derek.

Derek’s brows are raised in exasperation. “Stiles.”

“What?”

“I am a werewolf.” He over-enunciates each word, like Stiles is being deliberately obtuse. “I could hear you and your shitty jeep coming from  _literally_ miles away.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest because RUDE.

Just because he doesn’t drive some stupid, shiny black car that gets regular maintenance and doesn’t have scratches or dings and takes premium gas instead of the cheap kind and doesn’t make that weird grinding sound every time it takes too sharp a turn (and okay this list is getting kind of long) doesn’t mean that his jeep is shitty. His jeep has  _character_.

But then Derek looks away and mutters, “Who else would it be.”

“Aww,” Stiles says with a smarmy grin, flinging his arm around the werewolf’s shoulders. “You don’t have to pretend that you don’t enjoy my company, Derek. No judgment here, buddy.”

Derek grumbles under his breath—he could’ve been saying, _‘fucking Stiles’_ or _‘ducking files,’_ Stiles will most likely never know—but doesn’t push Stiles off of him, like he definitely would have without hesitation a couple months ago.

_Progress._

—

Scott leans across the aisle, face screwed up in concentration.

“What are you doing?” Stiles whispers.

“You smell funny,” Scott whispers back. Stiles sneezes in his face and Scott jumps back in disgust, whining,  _“Dude.”_

“Were you  _sniffing_  me?” Stiles hisses. “In _school?”_

Scott grins, revulsion forgotten. “Are you implying that it would be acceptable for me to sniff you outside of school?”

Stiles stares at him.

Scott’s grin widens and he sniffs in Stiles’ direction again. “No, but really, you do smell weird.”

Stiles puts his hand on Scott’s face and shoves him away.

—

Stiles groans weakly when he hears the knock on the door.

“It’s unlocked,” he croaks. Whoever it is can let themselves in because he’s sure as hell not getting up and braving the arctic temperatures outside of his little nest of warmth.

“You didn’t even ask who it was,” a familiar voice chastises him.

Stiles’ heart quickens. He’d been expecting Scott—who was happy to finally know what the weird smell on Stiles was, though Stiles would’ve been happy if Scott and his super sniffer had figured it out just a _little_ sooner—or Isaac, since Isaac had been by almost every day to bring him tea and make sure he was stocked up on cold medicine and was generally still alive (he really loves Isaac right now), or maybe even Lydia.

But then, probably not. She’d come to check on him the first day he’d been out of school, taken one look at him and said, “Stay away from me, I am not getting sick because of you.” Then she left, telling him that he would call her when he was well and not a minute before or she’d cross the wiring in his jeep.

She’s been texting him though and keeping him caught up on his classes, so that’s- that’s something, he supposes.

“I could be here to kill you,” Derek continues, sounding amused.

“Please do,” Stiles says fervently. He hears Derek snort.

Derek pauses at the edge of the living room, staring at Stiles in all of his glory. He’s huddled pathetically on the couch wearing the same t-shirt and sweatpants he’s had on for the last five days and completely swaddled in blankets.

“Oh,” Derek says when realization strikes.

“Oh,” Stiles agrees mournfully.

“You didn’t come over, so,” Derek trails off, awkwardly holding up a bag of takeout.

“Caught a bug,” Stiles grunts, making grabby hands at the bag. Derek holds it out hesitantly and Stiles snatches it from his grasp, eagerly rooting through it.

“Should you even be eating this stuff?” Derek asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be eating, like, broth or somethi—”

“You shut your filthy mouth,” Stiles threatens, jabbing a clammy finger at him. “That word is banned in this house.” He doesn’t want to hear any variants of the word ‘soup’ ever again. He’s been eating nothing but glorified salt water and crackers for  _days._

Derek mutters a quiet, “Drama queen,” and glances around the room, which has, quite frankly, seen better days. The coffee table (and couch, and floor) is littered with balled up tissues and empty bottles of cough syrup and used bowls.

Derek wrinkles his nose. “It smells like death in here.”

Stiles flushes and gives a self-deprecating laugh. “That’d be me,” he says, running a hand through his slightly greasy hair and avoiding Derek’s gaze. “Haven’t exactly felt up to showering as of late. I might take one today since I’m feeling better. You’re lucky, you caught the tail end of my five-day festival of misery.”

Derek gives a quiet huff and steps into Stiles’ kitchen. “Where’s your dad?”

Stiles hears him opening and closing cabinets, and the tell-tale rustle of a garbage bag being torn off and wonders what the hell he’s doing.

“Stiles?”

“Oh, uh,” he pauses, it takes a minute to remember the question. “Working.”

Derek comes back into view, carrying a garbage bag. He walks around the living room, picking up tissues and empty cracker sleeves and other things Stiles has left about during his week-long vacation on the couch.

“You don’t have to do that, Derek,” Stiles says, embarrassed. “I should be doing that.” He makes to get off the couch and take over, but Derek fixes him with a glare. “Sit.”

Stiles obeys, wordlessly watching Derek move around the living room. He goes back into the kitchen, comes out with a glass of water and a fork for Stiles.

“Eat,” he commands.

Stiles digs in ravenously, and Derek grabs the dirty dishes off the coffee table and disappears into the kitchen again.

“Holy fuck, this is amazing,” Stiles moans, perhaps a bit shamelessly, around the first mouthful of beef and broccoli, but he can’t be blamed; he hasn’t had real food in forever _._

He hears something clatter to the floor behind him and turns in time to see Derek picking up a soapy bowl, grumbling curses at the dish with a disgruntled expression.

Derek scowls and tells him to, “Shut it, Stilinski,” when he starts laughing, but of course, he doesn’t.

Derek returns to the living room once the dishes are done, sitting on the floor in front of Stiles’ couch, finishing off the food that Stiles hasn’t eaten. Which is basically all of it. Ugh, being sick is the  _worst._

“Not hungry, huh,” Derek grunts.

“Apparently not,” Stiles sighs, reclining in his seat, trying to get comfortable.

He puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks for the food, Derek,” Stiles says, eyes getting heavy. He maybe forgets to let go.

-

Next thing he knows, he’s waking up with his hand curled in Derek’s collar. He lets go quickly, stretching and yawning wide.

“Ugh, what time is it?”

“Ten.” Shit, he was out for two hours. And Derek hadn’t moved the entire time? Poor guy.

“You should take a shower.”

Stiles retracts his previous sentiment. Derek is a dick.

“Gee. Thanks, buddy,” he says, all sarcasm.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Derek says.

Stiles waves him off. “Don’t bother. I know I’m gross.”

Derek’s mouth turns up a little at the corners. “Yeah, you are.”

“Oh, har har.” Stiles stands and his legs give out almost immediately. He barely manages to catch himself on the arm of the couch.

Derek is on his feet in an instant, hand on Stiles’ elbow.

“Do you need help,” Derek asks, and it’s the hint of worry in his voice that stops Stiles from blurting something dumb, like, ‘What, in the shower?’

“I don’t think so,” Stiles says instead. Derek gives him an assessing look, and then nods, taking a step back. Stiles doesn’t comment on Derek following a step behind him as he slowly makes his way up the stairs. He feels comforted knowing that Derek will catch him if he falls.

-

He wasn’t exactly expecting Derek to stick around, but he still feels a stab of disappointment when he gets out of the shower and finds his room empty.

Stiles lets out a quiet sigh. “Lame.”

He goes downstairs to see if he has any more of that cold medicine left and finds Derek on the couch playing around on his phone. Stiles might experience a brief moment of panic during which he wonders whether he keeps anything incriminating on his phone. The odds aren’t good. He’s only 38% sure he doesn’t.

“This game is stupid,” Derek says without looking up. Stiles peers over his shoulder and sees Derek failing miserably at crushing candy.

“You’re only saying that because you’re losing.”

Derek flips him off.

Stiles laughs and continues hovering, watching as Derek finishes losing the last of his lives and tosses Stiles’ phone aside with a sound of disgust.

“Thanks for making me take a shower,” Stiles says. “I feel a lot better.”

A strange look crosses Derek’s face. It’s close to…gratification? Like he feels better knowing that Stiles feels better. That can’t be right though.

Whatever it was disappears quickly, replaced by an almost stern expression. “Did you brush your teeth?”

“What are you my dad,” Stiles grumbles.

“Well, did you?” Derek asks drily.

 _“Yes._  Jesus, what do you take me for?” Stiles shoves Derek’s legs off the couch and sits down next to him, a little closer than he normally would. For warmth.

He’s freezing, okay.

“When’s your dad coming home anyway?”

Stiles shrugs. “Morning probably. He’s had the late shift all week.”

Derek is quiet. “You could’ve called me,” he says after a minute. “I would’ve come over sooner.”

Stiles stares at him in surprise.

“What,” Derek asks defensively.

“You hate it when I call you,” Stiles says.

Derek rolls his eyes like he’s said something dumb again. Stiles really doesn’t know why it makes him smile.

“Wanna stick around and watch a movie?” he asks, super casual, not a big deal.

Derek gives him an almost smile. “Yeah.”

-

He must’ve fallen asleep again, but this time he wakes up in his bed with Derek pulling a blanket over him.

Stiles blinks up at him in confusion and  blurts, “Did you carry me to my room?”

“Didn’t want you to fall or something,” Derek explains gruffly, fidgeting like he wants to bolt.

“Oh, right,” Stiles says.

Derek shuffles his feet awkwardly.

“Are you gonna-?” Stiles doesn’t really ask.

“Yeah, I’ve got to-” Derek doesn’t really answer, head jerking towards the door.

“Right,” Stiles says again, oddly disappointed. It’s just because he’s not fully awake; he’s not thinking right. Of course Derek has to go, what was Stiles suggesting, that he stick around and they’d share his tiny ass bed? Like that would ever happen.

“Okay, well.” Derek nods and turns away, and Stiles is mentally kicking himself for being weird.

And then Derek offers an unexpected, “Night, Stiles,” and it’s all he can do to keep from smiling like a moron. Actually, he might not be too successful in that venture. Like, at all.

“Night, Derek.”

Derek smiles, just a quick flash of light in the dark room, and then he’s gone.

Stiles wonders how the hell he didn’t wake up when Derek  _picked him up and carried him_ up the stairs to his room, but managed to wake up when Derek was tucking him in. There is something seriously wrong with him.

Stiles rolls on his side and falls asleep easily, not bothered by the thought in the slightest. He’s had a lifetime to adjust to his wrongness.

—

Stiles’ cold drags out—because of course it does, the gods hate him—but his dad deems him ‘well enough’ and makes him go back to school on Monday.

“You still have a shot of beating that Martin girl for valedictorian, don’t you?” asks his dad.

Stiles thinks about it. “No, not really.”

“Well, that ‘not really’ will turn into a ‘definitely not’ if you keep missing school,” his father wisely advises him.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “You just don’t want me to stick around on your day off.”

John gives him a sheepish smile. “You aren’t wrong.”

He gets out of bed and stumbles around the room, gathering his things. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, I thought you loved me,” Stiles accuses.

“I do. Now, hop to,” John says. “Get to school on time and I’ll pick you up for lunch,” he adds.

Stiles breaks into a wide grin and hops to.

—

Stiles shows up at Derek’s house in sweats toting his backpack and laptop.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to bail on you, but I have a shit ton of schoolwork to catch up on. Figured I could do it here.”

Derek shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, uh. You didn’t have to come.” Stiles tries not to let his hurt show, but something must’ve slipped through, subtle guy that Stiles is, because Derek expression goes from uncomfortable to slightly alarmed and he starts backtracking. “I just meant that you could have stayed home if you needed to, I didn’t mean—” Derek gives up and glares. “Look, are you gonna sit down or not?”

“Pushy,” Stiles grumbles, secretly pleased. He sits on the floor and spreads his stuff out on the coffee table. He has two essays and four days’ worth of math homework to finish by Monday. How is that fair? It’s not  _his_  fault he got sick.

So he might’ve waited nearly an entire week to start it. It’s still not fair.

Derek sprawls out on the couch behind him, watching tv while he works on his Civil War essay.

“You misspelled ‘endeavor,’” Derek tells him a while later.

“Are you reading over my shoulder?” Stiles asks, not really minding.

“Yes. You also used that,” Derek leans over, arm pressed against his shoulder and taps on his laptop screen, “word wrong.”

Stiles rereads the sentence and says, “Well, shit.” He lets his head fall back onto the couch cushion and eyes Derek. Well, as well as he  _can_  eye someone when virtually upside down. “Wanna help me with the rest of my classwork?”

Derek shrugs. “Sure, but History isn’t really my strong suit.”

“You can look over my Calc homework, since that’s probably more your speed. Y’know, with you being a secret werewolf math wiz and all.” He waggles his eyebrows at Derek, ducking away laughing when he growls and tries to smother him with a throw pillow.

—

“C’mon, Derek,” Stiles whines. “We always eat here. I need a change of scenery.”

Derek pretends to consider it. “Yeah, no.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t want to be seen with you in public,” Derek snipes half-heartedly.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “The diner is hardly public. It’s a freaking hole in the wall. I’ve lived here my entire life and I didn’t even know about it.”

“Burgers,” Derek says slowly, actually considering it now.

“And curly fries,” Stiles affirms.

Derek grabs his keys and jacket and heads for the door.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Stiles mutters smugly, following him out.

-

When Stiles gets out of the bathroom, he sees Chris Argent sitting in his seat across from a highly uncomfortable-looking Derek.

He hesitates, wondering whether or not he should interrupt, but throws caution to the wind when he catches sight of Derek’s clenched fists beneath the table.

He slides into the booth next to Derek. “Food still not out?” he butts in casually.

“Not yet,” Derek answers, looking grateful for the interruption. He holds himself a little less rigid, hands relaxing and moving to rest on his drink.

Stiles suppresses a smile. “Hey, Mr. Argent. Fancy running into you here.”

Chris nods back. “Stiles. Allison didn’t tell me you kids were meeting tonight.” He glances around the room like he’s expecting the rest of the wolves and assorted humans/banshee to pop up.

“They aren’t,” Derek says shortly.

Chris looks at Stiles curiously, as if asking,  _then why is he here,_ but all he says is, “I see.”

“So, uh, what were you two talking about?” Stiles asks. Derek scowls at the table.

“We were just catching up while I was waiting for my order. It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to talk,” Chris says.

Stiles raises his eyebrows,  _what were you talking about._  Derek shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“She’s looking at you again,” Chris says in an undertone, smirking, eyes on an attractive woman seated on the other side of the diner.

Stiles’ stomach drops for reasons unknown. “Yeah, Derek, she’s looking at you again,” he says, tone false bright. He opens his straw and stirs his water with it aggressively, fully aware that he’s being weird.

“I already told you, I’m not interested,” Derek grits out, shooting Chris a look.

Argent smiles widely, unbothered. “When’s the last time you went out on a date, Derek?”

Stiles perks up, actually curious to know the answer to this particular question himself.

Derek stares at the table, stone-faced.

“Okay then,” Chris chuckles. His amusement fades, replaced by something approaching concern. “You know I’m only asking because Melissa and I are worried about you. So’s John, in his way,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. He casts a sidelong look at Stiles, gauging his reaction to the casual mention of his dad.

It’s not like he doesn’t know that the three of them do the adult version of hanging out. And he totally did not mean that in a weird,  _they’re banging_  way—not that he wouldn’t be proud of his dad bagging, not one but two incredibly attractive people (if one was into that scary, I-own-an-unreasonable-amount-of-firearms-and-have-been-trained-to-use-them-but-don’t-actually-need-them-to-kill-you vibe)—it’s kind of like pack-parent support or something. Stiles figures he should be grateful that his dad has someone to go to when he has questions that he doesn’t want or can’t bring himself to ask Stiles.

Derek looks like he’s taken a blow, though, like he wasn’t aware there were still people out there that were concerned for his well-being. Maybe it’s not as obvious to Argent, but Stiles can see it on him, plain as day.

“Now that my father no longer thinks you’re a murderer,” Stiles says to Derek, more to get that gutted look off his face than anything else. “I, on the other hand, remain unconvinced.”

It does the job. Derek’s expression evens out and then darkens, his hand twitching towards his steak knife and Stiles chuckles nervously, edging away. Kind of difficult considering they’re sitting right next to each other.

Salvation comes in the form of their food. The waiter deposits their plates and leaves without a word upon seeing Derek’s murderous expression.

Stiles has just resigned himself to his imminent death when Chris suddenly says, “You have friends, don’t you, Derek?”

Both Derek and Stiles freeze and stare at him.

Argent stares back, unruffled in the slightest, and waits for an answer. “Friends, Derek?” he prompts.

Derek glances at Stiles, tensing. “Not really,” he responds.

Chris looks mildly worried, like his suspicions have been confirmed, but Stiles is glaring at him in disbelief.

“What did you just say,” Stiles asks flatly.

“I said I don’t have friends,” Derek repeats, avoiding Stiles’ gaze guiltily.

“Don’t you fucking lie to him, Derek.”

“But I  _don’t,”_ Derek definitely doesn’t whine.

“You,” Stiles jabs a finger at Derek, “tell  _him_ ,” he jabs a finger at Chris, “the truth.”

Derek slouches in his seat, looking mutinous.

“Dude.”

“Stiles is my friend,” he tells Mr. Argent glumly.

_“And don’t you forget it.”_

“I hate you,” Derek grumbles and Stiles laughs.

“No, you don’t,” he says. While Derek is distracted, rolling his eyes, Stiles steals a couple of his french fries and shoves them in his mouth.

“Keep your dirty hands off of my fries,” Derek mutters, swiping his milkshake in retaliation.

“Keep your dirty hands off my milkshake,” Stiles mutters back.

He grapples for the glass unsuccessfully, watching dejectedly as Derek takes a long pull from Stiles’ vanilla shake and smacks his lips together obnoxiously in satisfaction.

Stiles kicks him under the table. “Asshole.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Chris watches them bicker, expression odd. “Right,” he says slowly. They don’t even notice.

“I hate you,” Stiles sighs.

“No, you don’t,” Derek parrots, smirking.

—

“Stiles, what the hell is this?” He spins around in his computer chair and sees Derek where he last left him—lounging on his bed—except he’s somehow gotten a hold of Stiles’ phone again.

Stiles panics. What if he found  _porn?_  Does he even keep porn on his phone, he can’t remember.

“The Academy Is, All Time Low, Boys Like Girls, The Cab, Cartel,” Derek reads off. He gives Stiles a judgmental look. “Seriously.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and spins back around to his desk, returning to his homework. “Says the guy that listens to nothing but EDM and classic rock,” he mutters under his breath.

It’s an old argument, one they continue and add to every time they’re in a car together and fighting over who gets to pick the music.

“What’s wrong with EDM,” Derek says defensively.

“Nothing, it’s just you look more the death metal type,” Stiles says offhandedly. He can feel Derek glaring at him. “I think it’s the frowning,” he muses. “Or maybe the leather jackets? The claws and glowing eyes? I don’t know, man.”

“I listen to things other than EDM and classic rock,” Derek says sullenly.

“Sure you do, buddy,” Stiles agrees amiably.

“The Ataris aren’t so bad,” Derek admits grudgingly. “Neither is Blink-182 or The Offspring, but other than that your taste in music is horrible.”

 _“Your_ taste in music is horrible.”

Derek drops the phone on the bed and starts flicking little bits of lint at the back of Stiles’ head with irritating precision until Stiles gives up on his homework with a sigh. He swivels around to face Derek. “You hungry?”

Derek shrugs. “I could eat.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek could always eat.

-

John finds him in the kitchen—cleaning up evidence of Derek’s visit—and corners him. He crosses his arms over his chest and fixes his son with a stern look. “So.”

Stiles gives his dad his  _‘you’re being weird’_  smile. “So.”

“Derek Hale, huh.”

Stiles freezes. There’s no way he knew Derek was here. How did he know?

And then he realizes and mentally slaps himself.  _Stupid, stupid._  It was Argent, of course, it was Argent. His dad mentioned going out with Chris and Melissa. Fucking meddling son of a—

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Stiles lies brightly. He tries to move past his dad to the stairs, but John brings a hand down on his shoulder and redirects him towards the kitchen table.

“Sit,” John commands.

Stiles sits.

“Talk.”

Stiles holds his hands out, at a loss, and folds them back together. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Start with what you were doing at dinner with Derek Hale on Friday night,” John advises drily as he takes the seat across from him.

Stiles shrugs, tracing an old scratch on the edge of the table with his finger. “Just hanging out.”

“Stiles.”

He looks up at his father, somewhat unwilling. “What, a guy can’t just have dinner with another slightly older guy without being interrogated now?”

John is watching him carefully, almost cautious. “It’s not… _serious,_ is it?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t a date, Dad. We’re friends.”

“Chris said that you two looked pretty cozy.”

“Yeah, because  _we’re friends,”_  Stiles repeats.

His dad raises his eyebrows. “You share milkshakes with all your friends?”

“Hell no,” Stiles says immediately. John smirks and Stiles realizes his mistake. “I don’t  _willingly_ share with Derek, either. He  _steals_ them because he’s a dirty milkshake stealer. There’s a difference,”he insists.

His dad looks unconvinced. “You spend a lot of time with that boy?”

“Yes, I spend a lot of time with  _that boy._ He’s, like, my best friend after Scott and Lydia. Actually, he might be ahead of Lydia after that stunt she pulled with my clothes,” Stiles muses.

“Best friend,” John echoes. Stiles glances up, alarmed by the odd note in his father’s voice.

“Dad?”

“There anything you want to tell me, son?” It strikes Stiles how tired his dad looks, and he feels bad for not mentioning, even casually, that he’s been spending a lot of his time with Derek.

“Lots of things,” he says honestly. “I think this would go easier if you just asked me what you want to know, though, so you’re not sitting here all night while I rattle off a bunch of things you didn’t want to hear.”

“Probably,” John agrees with a smile, eyes crinkling in amusement. “How did you and Derek Hale become friends?  _When_ did you and Derek Hale become friends?”

Stiles screws up his face, “Well…Derek probably wouldn’t agree that we’re friends, seeing as he doesn’t even like people knowing we  _hang out,_  but I’d say since, like, September. Maybe more towards the end.”

John takes a sip of his tea, processing this. “I thought you’ve known each other longer than that.”

“Oh, we have, we just didn’t really get along,” Stiles says. “Probably because Derek does shit like slamming my head into steering wheels and trying to make me cut off his arm.” John puts a hand on his forehead and stays quiet for a while.

Stiles smiles and waits for the interrogation to continue.

“And you say you’re friends with this boy?” John finally says. “After he slammed your head into a  _steering wheel?”_

“Well, to be fair, I did make him take his shirt off for Danny,” Stiles says. “Multiple times,” he adds under his breath.

“Oh, God,” John’s head falls forward in shame.

“What had happened was—” Stiles starts.

John holds up a hand. “I don’t even want to know, kid. Really, I don’t.” Stiles laughs, turning it to a cough at his father’s glare. “You’re enjoying this too much,” John mutters.

Stiles shrugs. That might be true.

“The arm thing, though,” his dad says. “He really tried to get you to cut it off?”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, that was a fun night.”

“What happened there?” John asks, sounding genuinely curious.

“Thought you didn’t want to know,” Stiles says.

His father gives him a look.

Stiles grins. “I don’t know, he got shot with some wolfsbane and we weren’t sure Scott would come back with the bullet we needed to save him in time, so Derek told me I’d have to cut his arm off or he’d die.”

John lets out a low whistle. “Christ, kid. The situations you get yourself into.”

“The situations  _I_ get myself into?” Stiles repeats, incredulous. “No, no, no. It is not my fault that Derek’s psycho ex blew into town and tried to kill him. Again.”

“His ex?” John repeats, confused.

“Yeah, Kate,” Stiles says dismissively. Crazy bitch.

His father’s eyebrows shoot up. _“Argent?”_  Stiles nods. “And she’s the one that—”

“Burned his family alive, yeah,” Stiles finishes for him quietly.

They sit in silence for a bit while that sinks in.

“You should get to bed, you have school in the morning,” John tells him eventually, getting to his feet.

“Inquisition over, then?” Stiles asks lightly.

“Yeah. No, wait. One last question. You’re really not secretly dating him. Are you?”

Stiles tenses, face heating. “No,” he says shortly.

“I wouldn’t be angry,” John tries.

Stiles thaws, laughing. “Yes, you would, you’d be furious.”

“Okay, maybe I would,” John admits, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’d arrest him,” Stiles says.

“And you,” John agrees. Stiles chuckles. “I just— You can talk to me. You know that, don’t you, son?” John asks, looking a little helpless.

Stiles smiles, and reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “I know that, Dad. Thanks.”

John pats his hand absently. “You’re sure there’s nothing else to it, then,” he says.

Stiles sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Dad. Derek doesn’t see me that way.” He snorts. “Actually, I’m pretty sure all I am to Derek is a constant source of annoyance.” He smiles brightly. “Not that that’s anything new, eh, Pop?” John laughs.

Stiles gives his dad a quick hug. “I’m gonna turn in for the night. Good chat.” He hurries to the stairs, but not quickly enough.

“Stiles.”

Stiles turns expectantly.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“You like him. Don’t you.”

The bluntness of the question catches him off-guard, enough so that it takes him a second to regain his composure.

“Of course,” he manages stiffly. “We’re friends.”

John hesitates, like he wants to call Stiles out because they both know that isn’t what he meant, but he just nods and says, “Right. See you in the morning, kid.”

Stiles forces a smile and flees.

-

John goes to see Derek.


	4. I think of you much more than I should

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an 11k update for your patience :3 Also, I offer my most sincerest apologies for the slow update. What can I say.  
> No, seriously. What can I say. I literally have no excuse. 
> 
> Chapter title from ‘Looking For You’ by The Lone Bellow (which is an amazing song/band; you should totally check them out)

Stiles has a little bit of trouble finding the will to leave his bed/live the morning after that talk with his dad. Not because there’s any truth to his father’s accusations or anything, _no_ , of course not. The whole thing had just left a weird taste in his mouth is all.

He’d spent the entire night staring at his ceiling, unable to turn his mind off, but utterly incapable of forming any actual, coherent thoughts other than, _why would he ask me if I like Derek? Of course I don’t_ like _Derek._

By the time watery light starts filtering through his curtains, Stiles has decided that there’s no way in hell he’s going anywhere today and preemptively shuts his alarm off. He turns his back on the sun and finally falls asleep.

Which is why, not even an hour later, there’s a knock at his door.

“Stiles?”

He groans quietly and thinks that if things went his way, just once, the world would probably implode.

His dad stops at the foot of his bed, judging him—Stiles can feel it even if he’s still pretending to be asleep and, therefore, can’t actually _see_ his father and his judging eyes—and shakes his leg.  “Wake up, kiddo, you’re gonna be late for school.”

Stiles gives up the pretense and kicks at him weakly, flopping over onto his stomach. “No, I’m asleep, go away.”

“Are you feeling sick again?” his dad asks, sounding worried.

 _Yes._ “No,” Stiles says, voice muffled by the pillow he currently has his face buried in.

“Then why, _exactly_ ,” John says patiently, “aren’t you getting ready for school.”

His father is obviously trying to be understanding and not jump to conclusions and if this were a normal day, Stiles would probably really appreciate that.

It is not a normal day.

“‘Cause.”

“Enough with the single syllables,” John says. “What’s wrong, kid?”

 _Everything._ “Nothing.” Ha, two syllables. Such a rebel.

John huffs and walks around the bed. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine.” Stiles feels a tiny stab of unease, not liking the change in his father’s tone. “But you’re getting up and getting your ass to school.” His dad, dramatic bastard that he is—yeah that’s right, Stiles hadn’t gotten it from nowhere—punctuates by flinging the curtains open, hideous sunlight flooding the room.

Stiles hisses and wraps his arms around his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “Don’t wanna,” he says stubbornly.

His dad mutters a low, _“Well, too bad,”_ and rips the blankets off of him. Stiles yelps at the cold sting of air.

 _“Dad,”_ he complains, irritation quickly turning into panic when his father grabs him by the ankle and begins dragging him off the mattress. “Dad. Dad, no. Dad, stop! _Dad, what are you doing!”_

“You’re _going_ to school,” John snaps.

“No!” Stiles screeches, hands clawing ineffectually at the only thing tethering him to life right now: his bed. “You can’t make me!”

“The hell I _can’t.”_ John gives a final tug and Stiles lands face first on the ground with a loud _thud_.

 _“Da-aad,”_ Stiles whines while his father fucking _guffaws_ above him, clearly enjoying all the pain he’s causing his one and only child. “I’m _tired.”_

John composes himself long enough to point a finger at him and give him the look, the one that means ‘no arguments, or else.’

_“School.”_

Stiles breathes a sigh of defeat into his carpet and picks himself up off the floor.

—

He gets through school. There’s really no other way to put it.

He does the bare minimum, just enough to make it through the day without getting called out on for not really paying attention. He should be, because finals are close and they’re supposed to start reviewing some important shit soon, but it can’t be helped; he’s just _so. damn. tired._

And the fact that apparently sleeping in school is frowned upon? Not helping.

Scott, bless him the loveable guy, notices his mood and spends the few classes they share and their lunch hour trying to cheer him up. He even sneaks off campus to get Stiles a coffee, which is nice. He’s felt a headache creeping in since morning that’s not going away and maybe caffeine will help.

(It ends up not helping in the slightest, but still, Stiles appreciates the gesture.)

-

“You look like crap,” the fifth person of the day tells him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Stiles grumbles.

Lydia appears at his side and glares until Greenberg goes away. “You really do though,” she says, casting a critical eye over him.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, putting as much sarcasm behind it as he can. He swings his arm up in a half-hearted farewell and slouches over to his jeep.

He’s about to pull out of his parking spot when Scott jumps on his hood, a big smile on his face. Stiles finds himself laughing despite his crappy mood and rolls his windows down, teeth chattering from the cold.

“What the hell are you doing, dumbass?” Stiles shouts at him, still laughing. He’s shivering hard and wondering how Scott is sitting on his hood without getting frostbite. And then he remembers.

What Stiles wouldn’t give to have some of that werewolf warmth, right now.

Scott jumps down and runs to the open window, grinning. “Wanna come over today? Watch a movie or something?”

Stiles grimaces, apologetic. “Can’t today, buddy. If I don’t get some sleep, I just might finally go off the deep end.”

“Like you haven’t already,” Scott pouts. Stiles manages a tired grin and Scott rolls his eyes. “Fine, but you’re coming over this weekend.”

“Sure thing,” Stiles agrees. “Can I go home now?” Scott rolls his eyes again, but he reaches through the window to give Stiles a hug and sends him on his way.

-

Stiles is halfway across town before he realizes where he’s heading. He turns around and goes home because what he wants right now is sleep and he obviously can’t sleep with Derek.

 _At_ Derek’s.

Sleep deprivation is clearly messing with his mind.

— 

“Seen Derek lately?” Lydia asks him as she applies a fresh coat of polish to her toenails, not one bit innocent.

Stiles glares at his textbook. No, he hasn’t seen Derek lately, but she damn well knows that, doesn’t she. After all, she’s the jerkwad that’s been forcing all these late night cram sessions upon him.

Cram sessions in which Stiles, and Stiles alone has been studying. Lydia mostly just lounges on his bed, painting her nails while she quizzes him (no flashcards necessary when you’re a genius) and yelling at him to focus ‘Stiles, it’s not rocket science, _Jesus’_ whenever he gets an answer wrong.

Forcing might be a bit strong. Lydia had offered to help him out and Stiles had accepted because he has to do it anyway and he’s sure Derek could use a break. So could Stiles, if he’s being honest.

And he knows studying with Lydia will help his grade in the long run, but at what cost?

Stiles scowls, and Lydia smirks like she knows what he’s thinking. “Sometimes, I wonder what I ever saw in you,” he tells her.

Lydia pouts at him mockingly. “We’re taking a break tomorrow so you can go see your boyfriend.”

“It has nothing to do with Derek,” Stiles protests, flushing. “I’m just exhausted. All the studying’s finally starting to get to me.” It’s his own fault, really. He should’ve been preparing all semester instead of procrastinating, as usual.

Lydia gives him her skeptical face. “If you say so.” Somehow, he knows she isn’t talking about the studying thing.

Stiles yawns at her, annoyed.

Lydia scrunches up her nose in distaste. “Attractive,” she says drily.

“Damn right, I am. Are you sad yet, that you missed out on all this?” he asks, gesturing to himself and waggling his eyebrows.

Lydia rolls her eyes, unable to keep the fond smile off her face, and throws a pillow at him.

—

He has his hand poised to knock when the door swings open.

They stare at each other for a while, Derek’s gaze wary and a little pissed. He looks more like his old self than he has in months.

Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about that.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, voice uncertain to his own ears. Derek doesn’t respond and Stiles is, for once, at a loss for words. He rocks on his heels and stays quiet.

Derek makes an irritated sound and walks away.

Stiles stands there, feeling awkward until he hears a flat, “Wasn’t expecting you to stop by.”

Stiles takes that as an invitation and lets himself in, shutting the door behind him quietly. He follows Derek’s voice into the kitchen, where he finds the wolf pouring himself a glass of water.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Stiles asks.

Derek looks at him over his cup, eyebrows raised like, _really?_

Stiles raises his eyebrows right back like, _yeah, really, what the hell are you talking about?_

Derek’s expression changes. He studies Stiles like he’s gauging his sincerity. “You don’t— I mean, you didn’t—”

“I didn’t what, dude?” Stiles prompts because Derek is taking too long to get to the point.

Derek closes his eyes and groans, “Oh.” Some of the tension leaves him and he leans against the counter, head falling forward as he laughs. “You didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?”

“I thought—” Derek hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Forget it.” He sets his cup in the sink and heads to the living room, leaving Stiles feeling mostly confused and slightly alarmed.

Stiles jogs after him and grabs his arm, tugging him around. Derek glares at his hand like it’s personally offending him, but Stiles leaves it.

“What happened? You were all pissed.” Stiles frowns, “I mean, you’re always pretty pissed, but on a normal day you’re at, like, a six and right now you were totally at a nine-point-eight.”

Derek scowls at him, not appreciating his— _completely accurate—_ observation. He doesn’t answer.

“We were fine last time I saw you,” Stiles says, because they were. Had been.

“Yeah, like a week ago,” Derek mutters sullenly.

“It’s only been, like, five days, drama queen,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes even though it had felt longer to him, too. It shouldn’t, but it did. “I was busy cramming for finals. I don’t know if you know this, but I’m in high school and finals are a pretty big deal, man. Like, flunk and my father might disown me big,” Stiles emphasizes, waving the hand that is not currently latched onto Derek around. Speaking of, he should let go, why hasn’t he let go, what is his hand’s _problem?_

Derek snorts and shakes his head like he thinks Stiles is an idiot or is being overly dramatic, one of the two (maybe even both).

He looks relieved.

“Did you—? You didn’t think I was avoiding you or something,” Stiles says slowly. “Right?”

“No,” Derek says, clearly lying.

“Oh, god you did,” Stiles groans. Shit, he knew he should’ve texted, but he’d figured Derek wouldn’t care. “C’mon, big guy, I fully give you my permission to do that wolf-y thing where you play a not-so-human lie detector, okay?” Derek glares at him, but Stiles ignores that and keeps his eyes on Derek’s. “I was not avoiding you,” he says, the words slow, succinct.

Derek eyes him, and eventually nods.

“We good?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, whatever,” Derek mutters, brushing Stiles’ hand off.

“What, no hug?” Stiles asks.

“Fuck off, Stiles.”

Stiles laughs and lets his arms fall to his sides, “Okay, okay. I still don’t get why you were all pissed though, I mean, it’s not like you missed me or anything. Half the time I’m here you act like you can’t stand me,” Stiles says with a self-deprecating laugh. By all rights, Derek should be thrilled that Stiles stayed away so long. He’s been coming over nearly every other day for weeks.

But Derek looks away, scratching at his jaw, like, like- oh _._

“You missed me,” Stiles says and then, “You _missed_ me?” A goofy half-smile breaks out across his face.

Derek stiffens. “I did not,” he says flatly.

“Did, too. You thought I was never coming back and you got _sad,”_ Stiles sings, because annoying the crap out Derek is one of his top five favorite things. Maybe even top three. (It’s right up there with making Derek smile).

“Stiles.”

“Yes, snookums?” he replies cheerfully.

“Shut up,” Derek says, but his mouth is twitching a little like he’s trying really hard not to find Stiles amusing.

“Now that’s not nice, buddy,” Stiles says reprovingly. “Wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings and have me disappearing on you again. Given how much you missed me this time.”

“I didn’t miss you, Stiles.”

“Liar,” Stiles sing-songs, throwing himself across Derek’s sofa.

“Moron,” Derek says immediately and Stiles grins. Normalcy achieved.

Derek confirms his thought by shoving Stiles’ legs off the couch and squeezing in next to him, snapping, “Scoot over, bitch,” when he doesn’t move straight away.

“I was here first,” Stiles says indignantly.

“My couch,” Derek reminds him.

“Your dumb couch,” Stiles says under his breath.

Derek growls and shoves until Stiles gives and moves over. He doesn’t move as far as he could, contrary little shit that he is, just enough for Derek to squeeze in, but it seems to appease him nonetheless. Probably because he knows that with Stiles, he’s lucky he got even that much.

“Supernatural?” Stiles asks him.

Derek grunts an affirmative.

“Remote?” Stiles asks.

“Here somewhere,” Derek says unhelpfully.

Stiles sighs at him and pushes his hand between the cushions, feeling around until his fingers find the stupid thing. His squawk of triumph turns into a squawk of indignation when Derek immediately snatches it out of his grasp and flips the tv on himself.

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles mutters.

“My house,” Derek says, pulling up the dvd menu.

“Your _du—_ ”

“Finish that and I will end you.”

Stiles huffs, but lets it go because as he’s said many times before, he’d rather not die.

“Besides,” Derek says in a tone Stiles would call casual, except Derek doesn’t really do casual. “You like my dumb house.”

Stiles feels his face heating, and has to bite his tongue to keep from saying that he kind of likes Derek’s dumb _everything_ so that’s not really saying much. Wait a minute.

Derek looks over at him when he doesn’t respond, his eyebrows doing that thing where they hang over his eyes in a straight line. “You don’t like my house,” he says, inflectionless.

Whoa, no, that’s not what Stiles meant at all, but he finds himself saying, “Yep. Loathe it, even. I loathe your big, dumb house.” Because he can’t just _tell_ Derek that he doesn’t hate being here, right.

Derek’s eyebrows of doom lighten up as the lies register. He smiles at the human wryly, and mutters an almost fond-sounding,  “Asshole.” Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest. Damn, Derek has a nice smile—objectively speaking, as one does about a bro. It’s not the first time Stiles has noticed, but it’s such a rare occurrence; it still takes him by surprise sometimes.

Derek frowns absently and looks away, back towards the tv screen. “Where’d we leave off again?”

Stiles pretends his face isn’t bright red and squints at the dvd menu, considering their options. “Oh, yeah; we just finished the one with the fairies.” He loves that episode. “Fight the fairies!”

“You fight those fairies,” Derek says, deadpan.

Stiles grins and pats his stomach when it gives a dull roar, complaining that it’s been far too empty for far too long. “Hey, wanna order a pizza or five?”

Derek looks at him like, _what kind of dumb question is that,_ and pulls his phone out.

—

“Oh, good, the sad smell is gone,” Scott tells him. “I’m glad, it was really starting to bring me down, man.”

Stiles gives his soon-to-be-ex-best friend the evil eye.

“You smell kind of weird again, though,” Scott goes on, completely unaware of the _‘drop it, drop it right now if you know what’s good for you’_ vibe Stiles is projecting. “Not sick-weird, but, like, happy-weird,” Scott clarifies unnecessarily.

 _It doesn’t mean anything,_ Stiles thinks frantically. He sees Lydia smirking out of the corner of his eye.

Oh, god. She was _right._

“What did I tell you about sniffing me in public, Scott?” he snaps to distract himself from the internal panic.

Scott makes a face at him, but dutifully recites, “I’m only allowed to smell you when we’re at home and no one else is present.”

“I’m really hoping that I heard that completely out of context,” Isaac says, taking his seat behind Stiles.

“Nope,” Scott tells him happily. Allison catches Stiles’ eye and waves her phone at him, no doubt trying to communicate that yes, she had been paying attention and yes, she did already relay that entire exchange to her bff Boyd.

Stiles grabs his backpack and tries to smother himself with it. Sadly, it doesn’t work.

—

“God, your house is freezing,” Stiles complains, pushing his cold feet under Derek’s leg. It might be due to not moving for the last three hours, but more likely it’s because Derek keeps his house like it’s a fucking ice box. Okay, that’s an over-exaggeration, but only just. Stiles had asked him about it once, before it was winter and actually _mattered,_ and Derek had told him that wolves ran hot, and Stiles had caught himself thinking, _yeah, you do,_ and on that frightening note had immediately changed the subject.

Derek glances at Stiles’ feet, looking mildly inconvenienced and back to the tv. “Don’t like it? Stay home.”

“Yeah, but then you’d be all sad and lonely,” Stiles says easily, shoveling another handful of pretzels in his mouth.

Derek goes pink around the ears and scowls. “No, I wouldn’t.” Stiles smiles and waggles his eyebrows and doesn’t wonder how he knows Derek is lying. He just does _._

Derek sighs at him and his probably stupid smile and says, “Have I told you lately that I hate you.”

“No, but it’s always nice to hear,” Stiles replies seriously. Derek gives him a stupid smile of his own and tells him to shut up.

—

The next time he goes to Derek’s, he’s prepared.

“Wolf-y, I’m home,” Stiles calls as he steps inside. Not very imaginative, but whatever.

Derek freezes mid-step, spoonful of ice cream half an inch from his mouth. “Are you _moving in_ , what the hell, Stiles?”

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows, all _wouldn’t you like to know,_ and sets his stuff down on the coffee table.

“What kind of crazy person eats ice cream in the middle of December?” he says, digging through his bag. “And at ten in the morning, too. Jesus, does _everyone_ I know have to be a freaking weirdo? I mean, I know most of you are werewolves, but get it together.”

Derek watches him pull out his laptop and a blanket, eyes wide and terror-filled, “Please, tell me you didn’t get kicked out of your house.”

“Yes, Derek, I’m moving in. Sorry I didn’t tell you. Knew you wouldn’t mind,” Stiles says sarcastically while he tugs his blanket over his crossed legs and sets his computer in his lap.

“I’m really hoping you’re joking,” Derek says, eyeing him. “But I never know with you.”

Stiles shoots him a flat look, not appreciating the lack of enthusiasm. “Of course I’m joking, genius. I already told you, finals are starting in a two weeks; I am not moving from this couch until I have crammed all of the necessary knowledge inside my _brain.”_

Derek sighs, looking resigned. “That could take a while.”

Stiles just hums and flips him off, already distracted pulling up the study guides Lydia had constructed for him. The unnecessarily complicated study guides Lydia had constructed for him.

Dammit, Lydia.

“Why do you _always_ have to sit in the middle, Stiles,” Derek complains.

“Hmm?” Stiles asks, turning his face towards Derek to show that he’s listening (even though he isn’t) without taking his eyes off his laptop screen. God, this is going to give him a headache. That’ll teach him for waiting until the last possible moment to start studying. _Lydia_ , queen among mortals, has been probably been studying since the semester started. If she needed to study at all.

That- “bitch,” he mutters.

Derek elbows him in the side. “Ow. What was that for?” Stiles asks, surprised to find Derek sitting next to him.

“I’m not a bitch, you’re a bitch,” Derek growls. “And move over already; I’m in your fucking lap.”

It’s not anywhere close to being true, but Stiles’ mind helpfully supplies images of Derek in his lap, Derek sitting on top of him, pressed up against him- _Oh god what the hell don’t think about it._

“No, that wasn’t— I was thinking about Lydia,” Stiles says, not blushing.

Derek frowns into his bowl of ice cream, and stays quiet.

Stiles forgets what they were talking about and gets caught up in a complicated math theorem he’s pretty sure they haven’t gone over in class and probably won’t need unless he’s aspiring to work at NASA. Freaking Lydia.

-

Not even ten minutes has passed and Stiles’ fierce determination to absorb as much as knowledge as he can before finals is rapidly waning. And it’s not like there’s anything distracting him from his work, Derek hasn’t even turned the tv on, but there’s this small voice inside his head telling him not to worry, he can do it tomorrow and Stiles is eating up every word.

He gives in to his inner procrastinator and tosses his laptop aside, wrapping his blanket tight around his shoulders. Jesus, why is he so _cold._

He side eyes Derek, who is staring at the blank tv, looking spaced out and, also, toasty warm. Stiles takes advantage of his distraction and scoots closer, slowly leaning into Derek’s side.

Derek goes rigid immediately. “What are you doing.”

“Look, it doesn’t have to be weird. I’m cold, you’re warm; we can just be two bros, huddling together to prevent the other from getting hypothermia.”

“You have a blanket,” Derek points out through gritted teeth.

He did, he had an awesome, fuzzy blanket, but he was- “Still cold.”

“And this is my problem...how?” Derek says, because Derek is a dick and apparently doesn’t care whether or not his best friend in the entire world dies.

“Well, Jesus, Derek, if you’re not gonna be a good cuddle buddy, at least lend me some sweats.”

Derek growls and Stiles thinks, _oh, fuck,_ but Derek just says, “Don’t have any,” and pushes Stiles’ shivering form off of him. He gets up, grabs his bowl and heads to the kitchen, taking with him the last of Stiles’ borrowed warmth.

Stiles huffs. _Scott_ never turned down an opportunity to cuddle. “You don’t have a single pair of sweatpants?” he asks loudly. “It’s unnatural is what it is.”

“Yeah, well, I used to. I used to have a lot of things, but, believe it or not, it’s kind of hard to keep track of personal belongings when you’re constantly on the run for your life,” Derek says sarcastically, settling back into his seat, narrowing his eyes but not protesting when Stiles scoots close again.

Stiles replays his words, pursing his lips. “So that’s why you keep wearing the same three outfits over and over and over and over-” 

He probably would’ve kept going if Derek hadn’t cut in, honestly.

“I have more than three outfits,” Derek says stiffly.

Stiles pats him on the chest, in a not at all condescending manner. “Of course you do, buddy.”

Derek frowns at him, mouth twitching at the corners like he’s trying really hard not to find Stiles amusing. “You’re such a moron.”

Stiles grins and slaps a hand down onto Derek’s leg, using it to push himself to his feet. “Yeah, well, I’m a moron who you spend a good deal of your time with, which would make you a moron by association, my friend.” He holds his hand out, rolling his eyes when Derek looks at it like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with it.

He grabs Derek’s hand, ignoring the wolf’s protests, and pulls him off the couch. “C’mon, we’re gonna go get you some sweatpants,” Stiles says, grabbing Derek’s jacket and keys and shoving them in his direction.

Derek takes them, still looking confused. “Do we have to?”

Stiles grabs him by the arm and drags him out the front door. “Yes.”

-

“C’mon, Derek, just pick a few pairs out and then we can go,” Stiles wheedles.

Derek glares at the clothes rack stonily and says, “No.”

“Why the hell not?”

“They smell,” Derek says stubbornly, like that explains everything.

“What do you mean, they smell?” Stiles asks exasperatedly. “They’re brand new! They still have the tags on them and everything!”

“Stiles,” Derek growls, eyes flashing bright blue for just a split second.

“Ohh,” Stiles says, getting it. Werewolves and their delicate sensibilities. “So, plug your nose,” he suggests.

Derek glares.

Stiles ignores him and runs his fingers over soft material, sighing wistfully. Maybe he should get some sweats, too, since he’s here.

Yeah, he’s gonna get some sweats.

He grabs a pair and hangs them over Derek’s arm, reaching back for another.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, buddy?” Stiles asks distractedly, hanging a second pair of sweats over Derek’s arm. He picks up a slightly larger pair and holds them up to Derek’s waist.

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek hisses, jerking away.

The human blinks up at him, confused. “Yeah?”

Derek deflates a little. “What are you doing,” he asks, subdued.

“You were taking too long,” Stiles shrugs.

Derek sighs at him and takes the sweats he has in his hands, puts them back on the rack.

“Hey,” Stiles complains.

Derek pulls another pair off the rack and hands them to Stiles, gaze averted. “You had the wrong size.”

Stiles takes them and stares, eyes wide. “Oh. Okay.” He grins and slaps Derek on the arm, “Look at you, being all reasonable.”

“Shut up, dick.”

Stiles’ grin widens. Derek rolls his eyes and grabs another two, all black of course, and says, “Can we go now?” He’s loaded up with an armful of sweatpants, somehow managing to channel ‘sullen teenager’ despite being a full-grown man with stubble and...muscles and everything.

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, just—” Something catches his eye over Derek’s shoulder. _“Dude._ Look!” He latches onto Derek’s arm and drags him over to the display.

“You said we could leave,” Derek says bitterly.

“In a minute.” Stiles gazes at the pyramid of hot cocoa with wondering eyes. Fuck, this is why he loves winter.

-

“Is this really necessary,” Derek asks while Stiles stacks him up with another six boxes of cocoa.

“Yes, Derek, it _is_ really necessary,” Stiles says. “Hot cocoa is on sale, five for five, and I don’t know about you, but I’ve got thirty dollars. You know what that means? That means I can buy thirty boxes of hot cocoa, and I am _buying_ thirty boxes of hot cocoa, Derek.”

Derek sighs. “Can you stop saying ‘hot cocoa’ like that. It’s starting to make me uncomfortable.”

“It is my God-given American right to say ‘hot cocoa’ however I damn well please, you _fascist,”_ Stiles says, indignant. An older woman passing by gives him an odd look and hurries off. Stiles looks after her sheepishly, hand half-raised in apology.

“I wasn’t aware that this was such a big deal for you,” Derek says, mouth twitching.

“Mock all you want, Derek, see if I share any of my cocoa with you.”

“Who said I wanted any of your stupid-ass cocoa,” Derek retorts.

 _“Everyone_ wants Stiles’ hot chocolate-y goodness,” Stiles says disbelievingly.

 _“I_ don’t want Stiles’ hot chocolate-y goodness,” Derek tells him.

“Liar.”

“Moron.”

“Fascist.”

“Moron.”

“Unimaginative prick.”

“Moron.”

They bicker all the way to checkout, until the cashier clears his throat, interrupting them. “Excuse me—”

They pause to glare at him. _“What?”_

“That’ll be $86.08, please?” the cashier asks uncertainly.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Stiles says sheepishly. He hands over his cash and moves aside to let Derek pay the difference.

Derek grabs the bag with the sweatpants and leaves Stiles to get the rest. “You wanted them, you carry them,” he says.

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters, and hears Derek snort in response. His mouth twitches into a reluctant smile as he gathers up his bags and hurries to catch up with Derek.

-

Chris watches Stiles follow after Hale, cursing when one of his bags tears, contents spilling onto the ground. Derek turns around and laughs at the boy while he clumsily tries to pick up what appears to be eight or so boxes of Swiss Miss.

Derek watches him flounder for a good minute before finally walking over and helping. “Moron,” he says, smiling, almost fond.

Stiles turns bright pink and for some reason calls Hale a, “Fascist bastard,” and tells him that there will be, “No hot chocolate-y goodness for you.”

Allison follows his line of sight and smirks, pulling her phone out to snap a picture and send it to either Boyd or Lydia, Chris doesn’t know anymore. (He’d been on the fence, at first, about his daughter’s new best friend being a werewolf, but it couldn’t really be any worse than her dating a werewolf, right? And besides, Boyd is the most level-headed werewolf, hell, person he’s ever met. They could use that in that ragtag pack of theirs).

Derek pulls Stiles to his feet and takes the other three bags out of his hand. “Come on, dumbass. You’re supposed to be studying.”

Stiles blushes darker and grumbles, “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

They leave.

“How…domestic,” Chris says after a minute.

Allison grins. “I _know_ , right?”

-

Despite his many protests otherwise, Derek does, in fact, drink some of Stiles’ hot chocolate-y goodness.

“It’s not so bad,” Derek says. As he finishes off his fourth glass.

“Shut it, Wolf Man, you love my cocoa and you know it.”

Derek glowers and flips him off.

Stiles shoves the Calc worksheet he’s been working on for the last half hour in Derek’s face. Derek takes it and looks it over.

Stiles tries not to hover. “Give it to me straight, Doc. How bad is it?”

Derek grabs the pen Stiles has been chewing on almost obsessively out of his mouth, and writes something on the paper, probably marking all the questions that he’d gotten wrong or something.

Derek passes the worksheet and pen back to him.

Stiles blinks down at his paper. There’s only one problem marked wrong, and Derek had even helpfully circled the point that had messed Stiles up and made the appropriate corrections off to the side. At the top of the sheet are the words, ‘Not bad’ written in a slightly messy hand.

“Dude,” Stiles says, surprised. “Your handwriting sucks.”

Derek scowls and elbows him in the ribs. “Like yours is any better.” Yeah, that’s a fair point.

“And you couldn’t have just _told_ me I did good?” Stiles says. “You had to write it down? Just how damaged are you,” he jokes.

Regret fills him as Derek’s expression shuts down and he begins to put space between them. It’s not until then that Stiles realizes how close they’re sitting, how much Derek must trust him to let him get this close in the first place.

Stiles grabs his arm before he can get up, and hangs on, not letting go even when Derek growls at him, low in his throat.

“Sorry, it was a stupid joke. Please, don’t be mad, I didn’t mean it.”

Derek doesn’t look at him, but he nods eventually. “Yeah, okay.” He shakes Stiles off and stands.

He turns around and glares, and Stiles is expecting him to say, _get the hell out of my house_ or something to that effect, but all he does is growl, “You’re making me more of your stupid cocoa,” and stalk off to the kitchen.

Stiles lets out a startled laugh and goes after him.

—

“So, I heard that you’re cheating on Natalie with Derek,” is what Scott opens with when Stiles sits down next to him in first period.

Stiles expels a breath of air, turning in his seat to glare accusingly at Lydia.

Lydia, who is doodling in her notebook—Stiles says doodling, but what he really means is sketching the beginnings of a masterpiece because Lydia just _has_ to be good at _everything_ (except being a friend, she’s not good at that. Terrible, she’s a terrible friend)—looks up at him innocently. “Don’t look at me, I didn’t tell him.”

Stiles huffs and swivels around to focus his accusing glare at Allison. She shakes her head, eyes not leaving her phone. “Wasn’t me.”

Isaac slides into the seat behind Stiles. “What wasn’t you?”

“Stiles is trying to figure out who blabbed to Scott about him and Derek.” Her phone buzzes in her hand and she reads the message with a small smirk. “Boyd didn’t tell him either, see?” She holds her phone up for Stiles to read.

 **Allison -** **«** **_did u tell Scott that Derek is Stiles new bff_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_nope_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_why is Stiles mad_ ** **»**

 **Allison -** **«** **_livid_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_damn._ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_makes me wish I had told Scott_ ** **»**

 **Allison -** **«** **_lol_ ** **»**

 **Allison -** **«** **_u should see his face rn its bright red_ ** **»**

Stiles eyes narrow when he reads the last of the messages. “You two are actually the worst, you know that?” Allison gives him one of her deceptively sweet smiles and goes back to texting Boyd.

 **Allison -** **«** **_Stiles says he loves us and doesnt know where he would be without us in his life_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_well I know what I would be without him in my life_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_happy_ ** **»**

Allison hides a smile behind the sleeve of her sweater.

 **Allison -** **«** **_liar_ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_u can’t prove that_ ** **»**

Stiles rounds on Scott, deciding to go straight to the source. “Who told you?” he demands.

Scott glances at the person directly behind Stiles and quickly looks away. “No one. I guessed,” he lies. Horribly.

Stiles turns slowly, and scowls at Isaac.

Isaac winces, expression guilty.

“Were we… _not_ supposed to tell him?”

Stiles glares at him disbelievingly. “Of _course_ you weren’t supposed to tell him!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!”

“Then maybe you should’ve _asked,”_ Stiles snaps.

“Stiles is right,” Scott says. Isaac and Stiles look at him, confused. “You shouldn’t have told me, Isaac.”

Stiles shoots Isaac a smug smile, but then Scott finishes.

“Stiles should have told me himself.”

Stiles’ head snaps around, mouth hanging open in surprise. “Scotty—”

“Quiet down, everyone.” Ms. Blake gestures to the whiteboard, which has a list of questions for the final chapters of the book they’re reading, _1984_ , and says, “I’m assuming all of you did the reading last night. If you didn’t, I suggest you do it now.” She gives the class a bright smile and sits at her desk.

Stiles tries to focus on the assignment, really he does. But Scott is, well. Even the way the guy’s holding his _pencil_ is screaming Passive Aggressive _._

“Scott,” Stiles whispers. Scott’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t look up.

Crap.

He’s being ignored, which never bodes well. It usually means that he’ll be spending the day—or days, depending on how pissed Scott is—groveling and paying for all of Scott’s food. And Scott eats a _lot_.

Stiles has a bad feeling in the pit of his wallet.

“Scott—”

“Stiles, I’m sure you’ll have time to talk to Mr. McCall after class,” Ms. Blake reprimands him gently.

Stiles nods distractedly and tries not to wince at the genuinely hurt look Scott is directing towards his still blank paper.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_You motherfucker._ ** **»**

 **Isaac -** **«** **_I didn’t know it was a secret! I’m sorry_ ** **T-T** **»**

Stiles waits until he’s sure Ms. Blake is distracted to shove his middle finger in Isaac’s face.

 **Isaac -** **«** **_Well that was hurtful_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_you’re the DEVIL_ ** **»**

-

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Isaac told Scott that we’re friends_ ** **_and now he won’t talk to me_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_What do I do?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Now is not the time for your posturing Derek_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I need your help_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Tell me what to do_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Why are you asking me, moron. He’s your best friend, not mine._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I figured you must be an expert in apologizing by now_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Given how often you fuck up_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Teach me your ways, sensei_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Be my werewolf Mr. Miyagi_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Help me Obi Wolf Kenobi you’re my only hope_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I’m going to murder you_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Liar_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_We both know your life would be devoid of meaning without me_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I am willing to live a meaningless life_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Especially if it means that I don’t have to continue this conversation_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_There you go again, lying_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_You’re an idiot._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_It’s alright, Derek, I know you love me deep down_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_and that’s all that really matters_ ** **»**

Derek tells him that he’s an idiot again, but he doesn’t deny it.

Stiles smiles.

And then he catches Scott giving him a disapproving look out of the corner of his eye, like Stiles being anything but penitent right now is a freaking crime against humanity, and the smile drops right off his face.

It’s gonna be long day.

-

Scott jumps from his seat when the bell rings, ignoring Stiles calls for him to wait up.

He watches Scott’s retreating form glumly. Isaac stands beside him, watching Scott run away from Stiles, too.

“He’ll forgive you,” Isaac says encouragingly. “You’re his best friend.”

Stiles gives him a dark look and stalks off to his next class. Isaac follows, trailing a few steps behind because oh yeah, they have second period together, too.

Peachy.

—

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I tried to talk to him and he ran away._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_He RAN AWAY_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Seriously Derek what am I supposed to do_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I should buy him flowers, shouldn’t I_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I’m gonna buy him flowers_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_No, you’re right, not flowers_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_What about a fruit basket_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Do_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Not_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_CARE_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_So that’s a no to the fruit basket then_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Derek_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Derek?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Fine! I don’t need your help anyways!_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Good._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Asshole_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Yes_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_What?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_What_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Fascist_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Moron_ ** **»**

Stiles smiles at his phone, and then he remembers that Derek is not funny, Derek is being a dick by refusing to help him with his Scott problem. He scowls and tosses his phone aside.

—

Scott does forgive him, no thanks to a certain werewolf who shall not be named— _Derek._

All it takes is Stiles paying for three of his meals—two of which occurred _outside_ of school and were, in Stiles’ opinion, unreasonably priced—a candy bar and an oath to proofread Scott’s English essays from now until he’s finished college.

He gets off lightly, all things considered.

Whatever, he’s still pissed at Isaac.

—

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I’m bored, what’re you doing_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Derek_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Dereeeeeek_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Fuck off I’m busy_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_OOH DOING WHAT I CAN HELP_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Don’t you start ignoring me Derek_ ** **»**

“Fine,” Stiles mutters after another long while—five entire minutes—of waiting for Derek to text him back. “I’ll just go over and see for myself.”

-

Stiles doesn’t know what he was expecting to find when he showed up at Derek’s, but it definitely wasn’t Derek covered in cocaine, blasting EDM.

Stiles freezes in the kitchen doorway, jacket halfway off his shoulders. “What the hell are you _doing._ ”

He takes a smug kind of satisfaction in the way Derek jumps, startled.

Ah, sweet revenge.

The music cuts off. “How the fuck did you get in here.” The look Derek is giving him is murderous, but Stiles has been on the receiving end of that glare too often to be affected by it now.

“The unlatched window, the unlocked back door, maybe this key I had made. You choose one.”

Derek sucks in a deep breath, lets it out through his nose and Stiles recognizes it for what it is, which is Derek trying very hard not to wolf out and kill him. If Stiles were sane, he’d be terrified.

Instead, he smiles serenely, feeling right at home.

“What’s all this?” He hangs his jacket on the back of a chair and gestures to the mess on the island. “Getting a little creative? Doing a little bit of that White Girl? You realize that I’m, like, morally obligated to report you, right?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

The cocaine turns out to be flour. Flour for a cake that Derek is making. Attempting to make, Stiles should say, because _damn._

“You do know you’re supposed to put the flour in the bowl, right,” Stiles says mildly, swiping his finger through the thick layer of white powder on the counter and making a frown-y face.

Derek mutters something about the recipe being confusing and Stiles sees the claw marks in the poor, defenseless flour bag and puts two and two together.

He exhales and rolls up his sleeves. “I hope you have more flour.” He plucks the near-empty bag from the ground and holds it up delicately between his fingertips. “Otherwise, we’re gonna have to make a trip to the store.”

Derek grimaces. “There’s more in the cupboard.”

Stiles opens the spice cupboard—is it weird that he knows where that is? It is, isn’t it—and sees another six unopened bags of flour.

“Wasn’t sure how much I needed,” Derek explains sheepishly.

Stiles doesn’t comment, mostly because he honestly doesn’t know what to say.

“Let’s see the recipe you’re using, then,” he sighs.

Derek gives him a look that could almost be called grateful and hands it over.

-

“So what’s the occasion,” Stiles asks casually as he finally (after the first three ruined batches, courtesy of Derek) puts the cake in the oven and sets the timer.

“It’s a…friend’s birthday,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up so high, they become one with his hairline.

“You have _friends?”_

Derek glares at him, nostrils flaring.

The laugh that escape Stiles’ mouth dies instantly because wow, Derek’s eyes are starting to get really, really unnaturally blue. “Not funny, okay.”

“Get out.”

Stiles grins and grabs his jacket, shrugging it on and turning to leave.

“Stiles, wait.” Derek puts a hand on his shoulder and spins him back around.

“Yeah, what is it, big guy,” his voice falters when he sees how close Derek has gotten. He moves slowly, reaching forward to slide a hand inside Stiles’ jacket and Stiles may or may not forget how to breathe for a second.

“Almost forgot about these,” Derek says, withdrawing his hand with a smirk, keys dangling from his index finger. He pulls the key to his apartment-loft thing off the ring and grabs Stiles’ hand, depositing the rest.

 _“Now_ , you can go.”

Stiles makes an over exaggerated sad face, hoping it distracts Derek from the flush he can feel spreading across his cheeks. “But, _Derek,”_ he whines. “How am I supposed to get in?”

“You knock, like a normal person,” Derek says sarcastically.

“But what if you’re not here?” Stiles persists as Derek steers him towards the door with an exasperated, yet somehow fond half-smile.

“Then you shouldn’t be either,” Derek tells him.

“Der- _ek,”_ Stiles whines.

“Thank you for the cake. Leave.” He shoves Stiles over the threshold and slams the door.

Stiles looks at his key ring mournfully. It’s only a key lighter, but it doesn’t feel quite as right as it did when Derek’s key was there.

Stiles leaves with a shrug, thinking that it’s a good thing he’d made a spare.

-

He’s heading towards the spot he’d parked his jeep in on the street, when he bumps into someone on the sidewalk.

“Oh, crap, that was totally my fault, I’m so—” Stiles breaks off, recognizing the victim of his texting and walking. “Ms. Blake?”

“Stiles!” She looks happy despite him nearly knocking her on her ass.

“You live around here? Or, uh, just visiting a friend or something,” Stiles asks, noticing the bottle of wine she’s carrying and silently thanking the gods he hadn’t knocked it out of her hands because that would’ve sucked in a major way. And also there’s that whole thing where she holds the power to fail him.

Ms. Blake hesitates.

“Was that a weird question? That was a weird question, you don’t have to answer that,” Stiles tells her. She smiles, relieved. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. B.”

“Don’t forget your homework,” she says, pulling together a stern expression. Stiles leaves, grinning.

—

 **Derek -** **«** **_I saved you a piece. It was good_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** ** _Thanks_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Oh and I know you didn’t make just the one copy of my house key_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_What?? I would never!_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Yes you would_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I’m changing the locks_ ** **»**

—

He doesn’t.

—

Stiles lets himself into Derek’s house without bothering to knock.

“Derek, I need a blanket and some hot cocoa, stat!”

It’s freaking cold outside. He says that a lot, but today he really means it. It’s _cold_. Cold enough that he’s pretty sure he’s experiencing the early stages of frostbite. He’s dressed in his warmest clothes, but so far it’s done fuck all to stay the chattering of his teeth.

He glances around the living room. Derek is suspiciously absent. As is his blanket.

He pokes his head in the kitchen. “Derek?” A quick look around tells him that Derek isn’t there. Naturally, this leads to Stiles wandering back into the living room, calling out, “Lassie,” and “Here, boy,” throwing in a whistle or five for good measure.

Derek comes staggering out of his room looking pissed, and hurls a wadded up blanket at him. “Why are you screaming,” he asks angrily. Stiles takes in the hair and the bags under his eyes and comes to the conclusion that he has interrupted hibernation. Even though it’s well past noon.

Wait— “Do wolves even hibernate?”

Derek glares and shuffles back to his room. “Wake me up again and I’ll kill you.”

Stiles grins widely, and looks down at the blanket in his hands. His amusement dries up as he realizes that it’s _his._

Had Derek been sleeping with it? He must’ve been.

One way to find out.

“Hey, were you sleeping with my blanket?” Stiles calls.

He hears Derek growl and something hits the door, making it shudder.

“No shame, big guy. My blanket is awesome.”

_“Stiles.”_

Stiles forces himself not to laugh. “Are we not in agreement about my blanket being awesome, then?”

Derek’s door flies open. “What did I just _say_ , Stiles?”

“Well, first you said, ‘Stiles,’ and then you said, ‘What did I just say, Stiles,’ I’m not really clear on which you’re referring to.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls, looking like he’s about to pop a blood vessel.  

Stiles cracks a smile. “Alright, alright,” he relents. “Sorry. Go back to sleep, your wolfiness.”

Derek shuts his door and crosses his arms. “No. I’m up now and I want some of that stupid cocoa.”

Stiles groans. “I’ve created a monster.”

Derek grins at him through a mouth full of fangs like he’s silently agreeing.

—

“We’re going to the movies.”

Stiles looks up from his work and smiles at Lydia. “Oh, cool. When?”

“Tonight.”

Stiles slips paper he’d been drawing stick figures on—or just one particular stick figure, a stick figure with frown-y eyebrows and stubble, and a little caption above its’ head that reads, ‘I’m the Alpha, grr’ except the Alpha part is crossed out and below it is an even smaller caption that says, ‘was the Alpha, whoops’—to pass the time inside his textbook and slams it shut. “No can do. It’s Friday.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Stiles stares at the table and tries (fails) not to blush. “I usually go to Derek’s on Fridays.”

Lydia huffs and flips her hair over her shoulder. “You’re always at Derek’s.” Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Lydia cuts him off. “And when you’re not at Derek’s, you’re with Scott and Isaac. When am I supposed get time with you?”

Stiles thinks about it. “I can fit you in on Monday?” He winces at the furious look Lydia gives him.

“You can fit me in today.”

“Or I can fit you in today,” Stiles agrees. He can always go to Derek’s afterwards.

“You are going to spend the whole night with me,” Lydia commands, as if reading his mind. “No slipping off to see your boyfriend.”

Stiles groans and hides his burning face behind his hands. “You know he’s not my boyfriend, Lydia. We’re friends.”

“Well, you’re my friend, too, and I’m feeling neglected.” Her tone is light, but there’s a slight frown tugging at her mouth that tells him she means it.

Stiles decides he can skip Derek’s for one night. Besides, he kind of misses her.

“Alright. I’m all yours,” Stiles tells her.

She scoffs at him. “Like you had a say in the matter.”

He takes it back. He hasn’t missed her one bit.

—

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Lydia’s taking me prisoner for the day. I’ll see you tomorrow?_ ** **»**

Derek responds almost immediately.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Tomorrow’s fine_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_You sure you don’t want to rescue me_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I don’t like the look Lydia’s been giving me. I can practically see the wheels turning in her evil little brain. She’s up to something, man_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Something EVIL_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I’m sure you’ll be fine_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_No I won’t, but thanks for lying. You’re a true pal_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_You better not watch any episodes of SPN without me_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I won’t. I have plans_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_What giving the Camaro a tune-up?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Brooding in the dark?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Eating the souls of helpless children?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Rearranging the five pieces of furniture that you own?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Manscaping??_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Bye, Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_You can tell me Derek_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_This is what friends are for_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_See you tomorrow, dweeb._ ** **»**

Stiles sighs. What could Derek _possibly_ be doing that doesn’t involve him?

—

Lydia barges into his room a full hour before the time they’d set to meet and offers a, “Oh god _,_ you’re not wearing _that_ , are you?” by way of greeting.

Stiles frowns down at his clothes. “What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?”

“You wore that to _school,”_ Lydia says incredulously.

Stiles stares at her like she’s crazy. “So?”

Lydia marches to his closet and starts rifling through his clothes. “I thought I threw this thing out,” she mutters, tossing whatever it is on the ground.

 _“Lydia,”_ Stiles protests, not appreciating having the clothes he (his dad) paid good money for (actually all of his clothes were pretty cheap) thrown around like garbage.

She ignores him and pulls something else out. “This, though, this is good. I bought this, didn’t I?”

Stiles gives up and falls back onto his bed, limbs starfished. It’s like talking to a freaking _wall._

“And these, too, yeah,” she mutters to herself. 

Stiles lies there a while, letting out the occasional sigh and thinking about an alternative universe where he’s happy and has friends that don’t believe in meddling.

Lydia jabs him in the side. “Sit up.”

Stiles scowls and rubs his belly, though it hadn’t really hurt. “Could’ve just said,” he mutters.

She raises her eyebrow. “I thought I did.”

“No, no, yeah, you totally did,” Stiles backtracks, fighting the sudden urge to grovel.

Instead, he looks at the clothes Lydia has chosen for him, a fitted grey sweater, a button-down and a pair of probably-too-tight pants, puts it all together, and immediately realizes that he needs to get out of this.

“Here’s an idea: I stay home and don’t spend the entire night being suffocated to death by these tiny clothes, and I make arrangements for someone else to accompany you out this evening. You know who’d probably love to spend some time with you? Your best friend, Allison!” 

The look Lydia gives him is chilling. He’s faced down true evil in his lifetime; monsters, killers and just downright dicks, but nothing has frightened him more than the look in Lydia’s eye.

“I mean, thank you, my dearest and most beautiful friend. I will go and put these clothes on at once.”

“Oh, there’s no need to thank me,” Lydia says, smiling like she hadn’t been mentally breaking his bones just a second before. “I’m always happy to help a friend in need.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at the thinly veiled barb.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” she says, her smile more of a smirk now. “I’ll be downstairs; come find me when you’re showered and dressed. And be quick about it, we have reservations.”

Stiles groans loudly. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

Lydia smiles and wiggles her fingers, shooing him off.

-

Stiles comes down half an hour later, freshly showered and groomed. He holds his arms out and does a slow spin at Lydia’s prompting and says, “Well?”

“You’ll pass,” she says cryptically. “I’m doing your hair, though.”

Stiles groans, but lets her push him up the stairs and into the bathroom across from his room. She makes him sit on the toilet while she pulls a bottle of mousse out of her bag and works on him until she declares him, “Decent,” and moves aside so he can look at himself in the mirror.

He looks…like a douche. A sexy douche, but whatever.

“Come on, grab your wallet and stuff so we can get out of here.”

Stiles nods and makes to walk out of the bathroom, but stops. “I really do appreciate all of this,” he says, not bothering with the you didn’t have tos. Lydia gets extra huffy when he tries to tell her to stop buying him things and dressing him up like a pet monkey.

“Well, I’m glad. You really do look nice. Not,” she adds unwillingly, “that you look a hundred percent terrible every other day.”

Stiles struggles not to burst into laughter at her obvious reluctance at the admission. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it,” he says seriously and Lydia lets out an exasperated sound.

He tugs at an errant strand of her hair, laughing when she swats his hand, and runs back to his room.

-

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Stiles mutters, tugging at his collar, all his earlier acceptance gone. They’re at some fancy restaurant he’s only ever seen from the outside and it’s nice, but Stiles just really wishes he were in normal clothes.

The night is actually going pretty well—despite Lydia forcing him to leave behind his hoodie when it was freaking freezing out (“How many times do I have to tell you, Stiles, it doesn’t _match”)_ —Lydia even manages to get the waiter to bring them a bottle of wine.

Which Stiles finds out he doesn’t really care for, (Lydia says it’s because his palate isn’t _refined_ enough) but it’s okay because one of them has to stay sober enough to drive and it obviously isn’t gonna be Lydia.

They eat way too much and talk about everything and nothing, about science and college and the possibility of failing out of high school due to an overabundance of supernatural shenanigans. Things have been quiet for a while, but they’re bound to pick up again. Stiles is still firmly convinced that Beacon Hills is on top of a Hellmouth.

Stiles mentions that Scott is thinking about starting up regular pack meetings (instead of the usual ‘something not good is in town so let’s pretend we’re an actual pack for five minutes until we take down the bad guy’ meetings) and Lydia mentions that Jackson had called her. That’s all she says, and then she punctuates by taking a swig of wine, finishing a fresh glass in one go.

Somewhere into second bottle of wine, she asks him about Derek, not calculating or wheedling, just genuinely curious and Stiles shrugs and says, “We’re friends.”

“But _how?”_ she asks, mystified. “I mean, the guy barely trusted Lahey and that was his first real beta. Like, practically his were-baby firstborn.”

Stiles bites back a laugh. Drunk Lydia is apparently funny. “I don’t know, honestly.” Because he has thought about it, he has. But he keeps drawing a blank. “Maybe it’s ‘cause he secretly thinks I’m hilarious,” he jokes. Though he’s pretty sure Derek actually _does_ find him amusing. Occasionally. Deep, deep down. So deep, he might not even realize it himself.

Lydia gives him that look, the skeptical one he _hates_ and says, “Right.”

The waiter comes by and saves him, distracting Lydia with another bottle of wine. Stiles sends up a quick thank you to whoever is looking out for him.

By the time the check arrives, Lydia is swaying in her seat and they’re starting to get disapproving looks from their fellow patrons.

It’s a testament to how drunk she is that Lydia allows him to help her to her feet and accepts his arm when he offers it. They stumble to Lydia’s car, Stiles’ natural clumsiness not making the walk any easier.

“What now?” Stiles asks, once he’s behind the wheel and they’re both safely buckled in.

Lydia rolls her head towards him and gives him a look. “We go to the movies, duh.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters. “Well, let’s hope we don’t run into anyone we know. Last thing I need is word getting back to my dad that I got Lydia Martin drunk and decided to parade her around town.”

Lydia just laughs.

-

They’re leaving the concession stand, mixed Icees in hand when he catches sight of his favoritest former-Alpha in the whole world.

Stiles perks up, a smile forming. He’s about to try and get his attention when he realizes Derek’s not alone.

So that’s what Derek didn’t want to tell him. That he was going on a date. Maybe it’s just him being irrational, but he feels betrayed somehow. He wants to say it’s because Derek hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him, and maybe that’s part of it, but deep down, he starting to understand that it’s more than that.

He watches, chest uncomfortably tight, as the woman speaks and Derek smiles at whatever she says, nodding.

She turns and Stiles realizes with a jolt of surprise that he recognizes her. He doesn’t want to, really wishes he hadn’t, but his brain has already caught up to what’s in front of him. Derek with Ms. Blake, Blake with her hand on Derek’s arm like it belongs there.

Stiles had forgotten they even knew each other.

Lydia is saying something to him, but he doesn’t hear. He nods at her absently and continues staring.

Why is she standing so close to him; is it _really_ necessary for her to be that close? It’s improper, is what it is. (Pay no attention to the fact that Lydia’s standing so close that he can feel her boob digging into his arm. It’s irrelevant).

He stands there staring at Derek and Ms. Blake and her fingers on his arm, his own fingers curling into fists.

Because Derek shouldn’t be here at the movies looking all happy with his English teacher; he should be at home wallowing in misery and counting the hours until he can see Stiles again!

Again, he’s being irrational. And he _knows_ he’s being irrational, but he can’t stop and he doesn’t want to, because then he’d be left to ponder the true reasoning behind his irrationalness.

Something tugs at the back of his mind and he remembers seeing Ms. Blake outside of Derek’s. He’d just figured she was visiting someone who lived in the area or something, not that she’d been going to see _Derek._

A miserable groan claws its’ way from his throat. He’s such a moron.

Derek’s head snaps up, eyes darting around, searching, and Stiles panics. He grabs Lydia’s arm and pulls her into the nearest theater, closing the door and leaning against it for support. _No, no, no_. _This is not happening._

He squeezes his eyes shut and forgets to breathe.

“What the hell, Stiles? This isn’t even the right movie,” Lydia complains, wobbling on her feet a little. Stiles is mildly surprised she even realized.

“I…thought you liked spontaneity?” he says with a weak smile.

Lydia shoots him an exasperated look and grabs his wrist, hauling him back out. Stiles keeps his eyes on the ground, cheeks burning, as Lydia leads him to their theater.

The movie has already started, to Stiles’ relief. He’s not really feeling up to admitting to Lydia just why it is he’s acting so weird all the sudden. At least this way there’s a chance she’ll forget about it by the time the movie’s finished.

His phone buzzes.

 **Lydia -** **«** **_What the hell was that?_ ** **»**

Well, there goes that theory.

Stiles just shakes his head, _nothing,_ and stares, unseeing, at the screen. What movie are they watching again? Probably something hideously romantic, if he knows Lydia. Which he does.

Lydia pokes him in the side. “Hey. You can talk to me, you know that, right?” she says, her expression open and soft.

Stiles’ throat tightens. “I know that,” he says.

Lydia doesn’t press him. But she does reach over and squeeze his hand.

Stiles gives her a grateful look and squeezes back.

He waits until all of Lydia’s attention is on the film before he sinks down into his seat, trying to fight off panic.

-

The drive home had been quiet. He’d made sure Lydia was stone cold sober before sending her home, of course.

He has this sudden, niggling urge to text Derek and tell him about his night, the clothes and dinner and the movie he’d pretended to hate, but was actually really good and had made him cry twice and it hits him, how deep in it he is.

His dad is gone for the night. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed by that. Maybe a little of both. He wants the company, but he’s not in the mood for questions.

He’s a regular paradox, Stiles is.

He pulls on pajamas, which feel like heaven after the tight clothes and goes down to his dad’s study with plans to drown his troubles in a well-deserved bottle of borrowed whiskey when the doorbell rings.

Lydia is on his porch, shivering.

“Jackson called,” is all she says, and Stiles holds the door open wider. She flashes him a grateful look and comes in.

-

She borrows a shirt and a pair of pajama pants and curls up on his bed while Stiles hovers, debating whether or not it’d make him a terrible friend if he snuck out for a quick minute, or y’know ten, to freak out in private since binging on alcohol seems like it's off the table for the night.

“I’m gonna go…wash up,” he says eventually, head jerking in the direction of the bathroom across the hall.

Lydia doesn’t seem to notice. She’s staring at her phone, face perfectly blank other than the slight wrinkle on her forehead. “Okay,” she says absently.

“Okay,” Stiles repeats.

“Thanks,” she says before he reaches the door, quiet.

Stiles pauses. “What are friends for?” he says, waggling his brows to lighten the mood. She gives him a small smile and goes back to staring at her phone wistfully.

-

Stiles splashes water on his face and grips the sides of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror.

“Okay, so I have feelings for Derek,” he says. “No big. We can handle this. We can handle this, right?” he asks his reflection, sounding a bit desperate. He shakes his head firmly and says, “Of course we can handle this. It’s just Derek. We’ll be over him in no time.”

His reflection grimaces in sympathy like it’s not buying it either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SN: White Girl is slang for cocaina (yes, I do know how to spell, cocaine sounds so much better in Spanish). Others are: Booga suga, smack. (and if you get that reference, be my best friend well my second best friend because cheese will no lie kill you if you try to take her place)


	5. This could be real simple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from 'Flesh and Bone' by The Killers.
> 
> This one's for my darling, Tristan, Happy (belated as fuck) Birthday, dear :)
> 
> Happy Holidays and whatnot. Oh, and sorry this took so long. I know, I'm a failure. On the bright side (or not so bright, depending on your point of view) this update ended up being closer to 17k rather than the previously mentioned 13. I have problems

**Derek - « _What are you doing_ »**

**Derek - « _Stiles_ »**

**Derek - « _I thought you were coming over_ »**

He spends a long time staring at the words, reading them over and over until they blur and run together and no longer make sense. Not that they made any sense to begin with. They’ve been hanging out for months now, and not once has Derek ever tried to make sure he was coming over.

Stiles shuts his phone off and shoves it under his pillow.

Just one day. He just needs one day and then he’ll be over it and he can go back to Derek’s and pretend like he never realized that he was kind of stupidly into the guy.

Yeah.

-

“Dude, why’s your phone turned—” Scott gets one look at him and Lydia curled up under the covers and flops on the bed, half on top of Stiles. Lydia rolls her eyes and mutters something that sounds like, ‘codependent losers,’ but doesn’t otherwise protest to Scott’s presence.

Stiles and Lydia are having a nice day. They haven’t moved much in the last twenty-four hours besides for food, water and bathroom breaks.

“Are we having a slumber party?” Scott asks, chin resting on Stiles’ shoulder.

“More like a pity party,” Stiles sighs.

Scott, predictably, takes that in stride. “Cool. Wanna watch Seven Pounds?”

“I said ‘pity party,’ Scott, not a ‘let’s commit ritual suicide’ party.”

“So, what,” Scott says after a beat. “We’re just…lying here?”

“Doing…nothing,” Scott says.

“…Nothing at all.”

“Yes, Scott,” Lydia snaps, finally choosing to intervene. “We’re just lying here, doing nothing.”

“But—”

“In  _silence,”_ she hisses.

Scott waits approximately five seconds before, “So, this is a  _quiet_  pity party.” Lydia reaches across Stiles to slug Scott in the side. “Okay,  _ow._  I refuse to believe that your banshee-ness doesn’t give you a strength boost.”

“Right?” Stiles says, because he’s been on the receiving end of Lydia’s wrath many-a-time and he knows exactly what Scott’s talking about. It is not normal for someone with fists so tiny to be able to inflict that much physical pain.

Lydia gives them a withering look.

“So what’re you guys pity partying it up about?” Scott asks.

And Lydia, apparently, has had enough. She shoves off the blankets and pushes herself out of bed, muttering angrily under her breath. Her hair is as messy as Stiles has ever seen it, the usually flawlessly styled locks mussed and sticking up in odd places like that time they’d found her wandering around the woods. It makes him laugh.

Lydia does not appreciate this. She throws his shirt, the one she’d slept in, at his head.

“Aw, c’mon, Lyds. I wasn’t laughing _at_ you, I was laughing _with_ —”

His shirt is quickly followed by his pants.

Scott pokes him in the ribs as Lydia snatches her dress off the floor where she’d discarded it the night before and pulls it over her head.  _‘Dude,’_ he mouths _. ‘Are you two…you know,’_  he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Stiles looks at him like he’s insane and says, “What? Dude,  _no,”_  just as Lydia says, “Shoes, where are my shoes, Stiles.”

“I think I saw them over by the door,” Scott says helpfully. Lydia shoots him another dark look and stomps across the room, shoving her feet into her heels.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks her.

 _“I_  am going to get something to drink. I can’t do  _this,”_ (insert pointed look at Scott here) “sober.”

“Not fair! You guys know I can’t get drunk!”

“Not our problem,” Lydia says, slamming the door behind her.

Stiles gives him a patronizing little pat of the head. “I guess it just wasn’t in the cards for you, buddy.” Scott slumps against him with a groan.

He quickly brightens. “Hey, you think Lydia has any more of that wolfsbane stuff that got us all drunk that one time?”

“You do realize that that stuff also gave us, like, horrible hallucinations, right?”

“So…that’s a no…?” Scott asks him, still looking a mite hopeful.

It’s times like these that Stiles is forced to really ponder just how Scott has managed to stay alive so long.

“That’s a no, buddy,” Stiles tells him. “That’s a no.”

-

Lydia bustles back into the room half an hour later, cheeks all flushed from the cold, and pulls a bottle out of the large bag she’s carrying. She hands it over to Stiles, and says, “For you—” she pulls another three bottles from the bag, “and for me.”

“Where’s mine?” asks Scott.

Lydia levels him a cold look. “If you honestly thought I’d waste money on alcohol for someone who can’t even get drunk, you’re dumber than I thought, McCall.”

Scott gives her sad eyes until she relents, begrudgingly handing a single bottle over.

“That’s all you’re getting. I don’t care if it doesn’t get you drunk, I’m not sharing any of mine with you,” she tells him, at which point Scott starts side-eyeing Stiles. “And neither is Stiles,” she snaps.

Scott slumps over. “Ugh, fine.”

The three of them end up playing rummy—it is a brutal game, one that all of them are, surprisingly, evenly matched at—while Stiles and Lydia pass their bottles back and forth and Scott just tries to down as much of his as he can in the hopes that drinking a large amount of alcohol in a short amount of time will yield the desired results, i.e.: intoxication.

“I think I feel something,” Scott says excitedly. They’ve long since given up on card games and are now watching reruns of Firefly and tossing around theories on why the best shows always seem to get cancelled.

“Yeah, all it took was an entire liter of vodka,” Lydia says sarcastically. Stiles has no idea how she’s managing sarcasm right now when he’s having trouble remembering how to  _blink._

“Let me have some of your guyses drinks.” Scott reaches over to grab the whiskey from Lydia, but she jerks the bottle away, alcohol sloshing over the top and hitting Stiles in the eye. He’s too drunk to feel it.

“No. I told you, you only get one bottle. It’s not our fault you can’t get drunk like a normal person,” Lydia says with a sniff.

“You’re a banshee,” Scott points out, incredulity almost palpable. “What the hell do you know about being normal?”

Lydia glares. “Whatever, werewolf. You’re still not getting any more.” She nudges him in the side. “Right, Stiles?”

Stiles looks at her uncomprehendingly. Seriously though, how is she still stringing together sentences? She’s had more to drink than he has and all she has to show for it is a little bit of a slur and a slight flush.

“Stiles, tell Scott he can’t have any more of our booze,” Lydia commands him sternly.

He nods, neck feeling like jelly. “Mm, oh yeah.”

“That doesn’t count, he’s wasted!” Scott argues. He gives Stiles a sympathetic look. “Sorry, dude, but you look pretty out of it.”

Stiles just hums in agreement because, really, he can’t argue with that. Literally. His vocal chords do not seem to be in cooperation with his brain at this time. He finds himself sinking lower and lower on the bed until he somehow ends up with his legs tucked under Scott’s and his head in Lydia’s lap.

“Who knew he was such a lightweight,” Lydia says fondly. Stiles wants to tell her that he is not a lightweight, thank you very much, lightweights cannot drink as much alcohol as he’d just put away, but since he no longer has the ability to form words, he settles for a forlorn sigh and closes his eyes, giving in to the pleasant feeling of Lydia’s fingers carding through his hair.

-

“You think he’ll remember what he said?” Scott asks. 

Lydia stops what she’s doing and looks down at Stiles fast asleep between them, mouth wide open, and nearly smiles. She goes back to filing Scott’s nails with a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Scott studies her appraisingly. “Did  _you_  know?”

“I guessed a while ago,” she admits. “It’s kind of obvious, the way he talks about him.”

Scott sighs and slumps forward. “Why didn’t he _tell_ me?”

“Honestly? I’m surprised he said anything at all,” Lydia says. “I didn’t even think  _he_  knew.”

Scott sighs again. “Hand me the rest of that whiskey, would you?”

“No.”

“It’s not like _he’s_ gonna drink it,” Scott protests.

“No.”

“But, _Lydia—”_ She widens her eyes dangerously, and he quickly backs down. “Or not, I don’t need it.”

Lydia nods, like _yeah, that’s right_ , and sets aside the nail file. “What color do you want?”

“What colors do you have?” Scott counters.

Lydia smirks. “Behind you, first drawer.” Scott lifts an eyebrow, but obediently turns and opens the top drawer in Stiles’ nightstand.

He looks back around, mouth twitching. “Does Stiles know about this?”

Her expression turns pitying, like Scott really should know better than to ask. “Of course not. Now, hurry up and pick a color for him, too.”

“I know he’s passed out and all, but I’m pretty sure he’ll notice his nails being painted,” Scott says.

“We’ve been using him as a table for the last half hour, Scott,” Lydia points out drily. “I don’t think he’s going to be waking up any time soon.”

Scott decides she’s probably right and picks out a color for Stiles, too.

-

John pokes his head in Stiles’ room, checking on him like he always does after he gets off a late shift, and sees his son in bed with Scott and Lydia Martin, the three of them sprawled on top of one another, snoring loudly. He’s about to quietly back out and shut the door when he notices a bottle of whiskey teetering dangerously close to the edge of the bed, a couple of empties on the floor.

He sighs and grabs the bottle off the bed, lest his idiot child and his equally moronic friends knock it down in their sleep. After a moment’s thought, he picks the empty bottles from the ground, too, not wanting anyone to step on them in the morning—he squints down at the bottles, reading the labels, and mentally corrects himself— _afternoon_  when they wake up.

He disposes of the empties and takes the nearly-finished whiskey back to his study, thinking that he should probably just be grateful that none of it was his.

—

A hand shakes him awake. “Stiles. Stiles, wake up.”

“Ugh, no,” Stiles groans.

_“Stiles.”_

Why god.

Why are there miniature elephants dancing on his head.

What has he done to deserve this.

“Dude, I gotta go,” Scott tells him, like he thinks Stiles actually even cares right now. “And I wanted to make sure you were…okay, after…last night. Stiles? Are you listening to me?”

Stiles has closed his eyes, praying for sleep to return to him. _Come back to me, my love, I need you._

Scott shakes him again. “Stiles,” he whines. “Aren’t you gonna tell me goodbye?”

Stiles pries his eyes open and lifts his head, squinting up at his supposed best friend through the dim light. “What time’s it.”

“Almost 9,” Scott informs him, sounding chipper.

 _“And you woke me up at this ungodly hour to tell me you’re_ leaving?” Stiles nearly yells.

“Shh, shut up.” Lydia smacks at his face and rolls off of his arm and onto her side, pulling the covers over her head. Lydia has the right idea.

“Well, yeah, I thought—” Scott starts.

“I don’t care, I don’t care, just let me go to sleep,” Stiles says desperately.

“Alright, man,” Scott says, grinning now. “Love you!” He leans down and presses a noisy kiss to Stiles’ cheek, and that does it. Stiles pushes him out of the way and sprints to the bathroom, barely making it in time.

Scott pats his back while he heaves up his internal organs and what appears to be every single meal he’s consumed in the last sixteen years of his life.

“Want me to stay and hold your hair?” Scott asks, sounding much too cheerful for such a horrible day.

“I fucking hate you,” Stiles groans.

“No, you don’t,” Scott says happily, reminding him of Derek. Which is just about the last thing he wants to think about on right now.

Stiles manages to glare at Scott for a full second before he starts puking his guts out again.

Scott wordlessly hands over his toothbrush when he’s done. Stiles mutters a few halfhearted curses at him—“Rat bastard, fucking no-hangover-having werewolf”—but accepts his toothbrush gratefully. His mouth feels so gross. Scott leaves him to it, coming back a few minutes later with some toast and a cup of coffee and a contrite smile.

Stiles takes a tentative sip from his favorite mug, the Batman one—and now he knows Scott’s sucking up to him, this mug had been dirty and there were plenty others clean—but the coffee’s perfect, just how he likes it when he’s hungover. Strong with just a little bit of cream and sugar.

Stiles decides that he has the best best friend in the world.

He still hates him though.

“See you later, buddy,” Scott says, giving him a one-armed hug.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles grumbles, coffee clutched close to his chest.

Lydia glares at him through bloodshot eyes when he climbs back into bed. “You have the worst ideas,” she tells him, and falls back asleep.

Stiles is secretly glad that she also looks pretty shitty. Well, as shitty as Lydia Martin _can_ look. Which is not very.

He hates her, too.

-

He’s vaguely aware of Lydia getting out of bed. At least he thinks it’s her. He doesn’t actually risk opening his eyes to check.

Time passes, and he’s woken by a pair of soft lips pressing a kiss to his forehead. “That was fun,” Lydia says loudly—too loud, why is she being so loud—pinching his cheek. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Urhhn, no, go away.” Stiles bats her hand away and rolls onto his side, pulling a pillow against his stomach and curling himself around it. An extremely painful glance at his bedside alarm clock tells him that it’s close to 11. In the morning. Stiles wonders if the quick hangover recovery time is another banshee trait. Probably.

The last thought he has before he passes out again is that he needs more human friends to suffer with him.

-

Someone squeezes his shoulder. “Stiles.”

He cracks his eyes open, and ow, holy fucking hell. He hurriedly squeezes his eyelids shut and asks whoever it is that has disturbed his slumber what the hell they want. Well, he tries to anyway.

What he _actually_ manages is an angry sounding, “Hnnf!” which only serves to make the person standing over him snort.

“So, I take it you’re not dead,” Derek says. Stiles is not dead, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing he was. He would gladly take death right now.

He tries to open his eyes again, slower this time, with the same results. “Arghhh.” Aspirin. He needs aspirin.

A warm hand touches his cheek, and the throbbing in his head lessens. Stiles reaches up blindly and holds the hand tighter against his face, groaning happily. Derek is an angel, a _godsend—_

“I should probably let you suffer through this,” he says drily.

Derek is an evil, evil man.

“Don’t even joke,” Stiles mumbles.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have drank so much. Or, you know, not drank at all, considering you’re just a few years shy of the legal drinking age.”

Stiles opens an eye to glare at him. It hurts, but not anywhere near as bad as before. “You’re just jealous that I can get drunk and you can’t.”

“So jealous. How’s your head feeling again?” Derek asks innocently.

And okay, yeah, the asshole has a point. “Whatever,” Stiles mumbles. “Just shut up and keep doing your magic pain leech thing.” Derek huffs down at him and pulls his hand out from underneath Stiles’.

Stiles lets out a pathetic sounding whine when a starburst of pain immediately shoots through his skull. He glares at Derek as best he can through his barely open eyes. _Why are you doing this to me._

“If you think I’m going to stand here all day, taking care of you, you’re a moron.” Derek nudges him over and climbs in next to him, grabbing him by the arm and adjusting him until they’re both fairly comfortable, and places his hand on the side of Stiles’ head. Stiles sighs in relief as the pain slowly fades. “Nice nails, by the way.”

Stiles glances down at his nails.

They are purple. And sparkly.

He does not know how this happened.

“So you stood me up to have a drunken nail party with your friends. Good to know.” Derek says drily. Stiles tries—fails—not to read too much into the phrasing.

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea. I was gonna go over, I just— Lydia wouldn’t let me leave. You know how she gets,” he says with a laugh he doesn’t really feel. Derek frowns slightly, and Stiles knows he knows it’s a lie, but he doesn’t comment.

It’s quiet after that, and Stiles, despite the way his mind is spinning with thoughts of _why does he care, why is he doing this for me_ , finds himself drifting off.

-

He’s pleased to discover that he feels more or less okay the next time he wakes. When he opens his eyes—cautiously—he sees that Derek is propped against the headboard, a glass of water in hand, reading his copy of 1984.

“I saw you at the movies the other day.”

Derek swallows his water down too fast, the movement of his throat looking painful. “Oh. Hey. You’re up.” He takes another sip of water, eyes fixed on the book.

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, sarcasm thick, “I am.” Derek swirls the water around in his cup, gaze still averted. “So, who’d you go with?” Stiles asks, forcing his voice to stay light, teasing. “Was it a date?”

Derek’s poker face slips, giving way to something resembling…panic?

“No! I mean, I don’t. That. It wasn’t—” Stiles watches him stumble over his words, almost feeling sorry for the guy. “It wasn’t a date,” Derek finally gets out.

“Right, okay.” Stiles decides to leave it alone. If Derek said it wasn’t a date, then it wasn’t a date.

Even though it _really_ fucking _looked_ like a date to Stiles. They went to the movies, for Christ’s sake! You know who goes to the movies?

_Couples._

And also him and Lydia, but that is a completely different subject matter.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” Derek says, changing the subject.

“I am,” Stiles admits. His head doesn’t feel like it’s about to fall off anymore, at least.

“You’re welcome,” Derek tells him. “I’ll accept my payment now.”

Stiles eyes him suspiciously. “And what payment would that be?”

“The one I get for curing your horrible hangover.”

He sighs, already knowing where this is going. “What do you want,” Stiles asks, voice dull.

“I’ll take some cocoa, if you have it,” Derek says, expression innocent.

“Color me surprised.” Stiles finds himself wishing for the billionth time that he’d never insisted Derek try his hot chocolate. Hands down, worst decision he’s ever made.

On the bright side, Derek had started buying the cocoa after the first thirty boxes ran out. Then again Derek had been the one to drink the majority of said cocoa. Stiles isn’t too sure who’s getting the better end of this deal, but he _is_ pretty positive it is not him.

“Hey, can werewolves get diabetes? Asking for a friend.”

Derek kicks him lightly on the leg, lips quirking when Stiles kicks back a few seconds too slow.

He gives Stiles a pointed look when he doesn’t move. “Well?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Stiles mutters, dragging himself out of bed. Derek follows him downstairs and sits at the counter while Stiles throws their cocoa together. 

“So when’s your dad coming home,” Derek asks casually, accepting his mug with a nod of thanks.

Stiles looks over at him, mildly surprised. “Not ‘til late, why?”

Derek shrugs. “Just wondering.”

“Right,” Stiles says skeptically.

“Feel like finishing off season seven?” Derek asks him. It sounds manageable, they only have four or five episodes left.

“Sure, but we’ll have to watch it on Netflix,” Stiles says. “We left the dvds at your place, big guy.”

“Oh, right,” Derek says sheepishly.

“You want it on the couch or bed?” Stiles asks.

Derek chokes on his cocoa, coughing violently. “Fuck, what?”

“Do you wanna do this on the couch or on the bed?” Stiles repeats, eyebrows raised.

“I—” Derek’s face becomes unreadable, “Oh, you mean— The couch is fine. I’ll go get your laptop,” he says, hopping off the stool and hurrying away before Stiles can get a word in.

Stiles watches him run up the stairs with a confused frown.

The trip to get the laptop takes longer than it should, but Stiles gets distracted after he wraps his hand around his mug and catches sight of his nails again.

 **Stiles** \- **«** **_I didn’t think my day could get any worse, what with the killer hangover (which is totally your fault btw) so imagine my surprise when I woke up and discovered that MY NAILS ARE PURPLE_** **»**

 **Lydia** \- **«** **_You should probably see someone about that. Sounds serious._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Don’t play dumb with me, you little two bit tramp_ ** **»**

 **Lydia -** **« :-)** **»**

 **Stiles** \- **«** **_YOU DID THIS TO ME_ ** **»**

 **Lydia -** **«** **_Don’t be such a bitch, a little nail polish isn’t going to kill you_ ** **»**

 **Lydia -** **«** **_Besides, you have to admit they look good_ ** **»**

Stiles studies his nails.

 **Stiles** **-** **«** **_I suppose they are rather dashing_ ** **»**

 **Lydia -** **« _Damn right they are_ ;-)** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_I still need it off though_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_You know how easily I get distracted by glitter_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **« _And_** **_I can’t afford to lose focus during finals_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Lydia?_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_How do I get it off_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_This is serious Lydia my future is on the line_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_LYDIA_** **»**

Stiles slumps across the counter. Why, oh why, did he think it was a good idea to be friends with a banshee.

Derek finally comes back down, acting as if nothing happened, and Stiles soon forgets about the strange behavior, especially after Derek offers to pick up carryout from the diner which Stiles immediately—vehemently—agrees to. Greasy burgers sound really good to his painfully empty stomach. He goes along for the ride, but stays in the car while Derek pays for their order.

He basically inhales his curly fries on the drive home.

“They’re all gone,” Stiles says mournfully, upending the carton and watching the few crumbs he hadn’t gotten to fall to the floor.

Derek sighs and opens the bag, pulling out another carton of curly fries and handing it over to Stiles. “Figured you’d be hungry,” he mumbles.

“I could kiss you right now,” Stiles says as he shoves a handful of fries in his mouth. He thinks he sees Derek studying him in his peripheral, but when he looks over, Derek’s eyes are on the road.

—

Things get easier after that. Stiles isn’t over it, of course, but he’s handling it a bit better. It helps that finals are about to start and he’s too caught up doing last minute cramming to think too much about his feelings for Derek.

Not to say that Stiles doesn’t still think about Derek all the time. He does, it’s just he’s thinking about Derek maybe 73% of the time instead of the normal 94, which is totally not as pathetic as it sounds.

Totally.

The dreams, on the other hand, do _not_ help. He finds himself waking up entangled in wet sheets more often than not, and it’s like he’s thirteen all over again. They’re vivid, and torturous, and Stiles has a hard time wishing that they’ll stop.

—

“‘lo?”

 _“Can you tell me why your idiot best friend thought it was okay to show up at_ my house _, make himself comfortable on_ my couch _and then tell me that I need to apologize to Isaac if I want to be in his pack.”_

Stiles sits up, propping himself against the headboard, and yawns. “W’sat?”

_“Scott wants me to apologize to Isaac and for some reason thinks that I want to be a part of his crappy little pack. Why.”_

Stiles blinks hazily and checks the caller id. “…Derek?”

 _“Yes, Stiles, obviously,”_ he says impatiently. _“Why does your stupid friend think he can tell me what to do?”_

“Stupid is a mean word,” Stiles reprimands absently. He takes the phone away from his ear and checks the time. Holy shit, it’s 3 AM. No wonder he feels so dead.

He means to ask why Derek is calling him about this at 3 in the morning, but what comes out is, “Why are you _calling_ me?”

There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line. _“Sorry. I’ll talk to you later.”_

“No, no, I didn’t mean to say that,” Stiles quickly backtracks. “Sorry. I’m pretty tired, man.”

 _“So go to sleep. I’ll talk to you later,”_ Derek says again, but it sounds easier this time around.

“Nah, I’m up now.” Stiles rubs the sleep out of his eyes and bites back another yawn. “So, tell me, are you actually going to apologize or are you going to pretend you don’t care, even though everyone knows you check up on Isaac all the time. Scott told me all about the super stealthy, middle of the night drive-by thing you do, you big ol’ creeper.”

 _“I don’t- do. that,”_ Derek says stiffly. Stiles laughs at him. _“Whatever. Who’s everyone?”_

 _“Everyone,”_ Stiles says ominously.

Derek says, _“Ugh,”_ the universally acknowledged sound of _‘everyone I know sucks.’_

 _“I wasn’t checking up on Isaac,”_ he tries. _“ I was…checking on…_ things. Other things.” 

“Sure you were, dude.”

Derek huffs at him, annoyed.

“He’ll forgive you, you know.”

Derek doesn’t even pretend that he doesn’t know what Stiles is talking about. _“What makes you think that,”_ he asks quietly.

“Look, dude, he was hurt when you kicked him out like that, but we all know you only did it to keep him safe,” Stiles says. “The Alphas were going after you and you knew that Isaac wouldn’t leave you to face them alone so you did the only thing you could think of to get him to leave. And it was harsh, and it probably could’ve been handled better, like, a lot better, let me tell you—” Stiles forces himself to stop. Way to put your foot in your mouth, Stilinski.

“But you kept him alive,” Stiles says, “and that’s what’s important.”

 _“I…thanks_ ,” Derek says after a beat _. “I didn’t think anyone gave it much thought.”_ Stiles feels a stab of something like protectiveness. Because it sucks that pretty much everyone they know forgets that Derek is a person, too—an extremely broody and sometimes (most times) unpleasant wolf-person, but still, a person.

“They just don’t know you,” Stiles says.

Derek snorts. _“Maybe that’s a good thing. The less they know, the less likely it is they’ll die a horrible death.”_ The way he says it makes it sound self-deprecating, like it’s supposed to be a joke, but it mostly just makes Stiles feel…sad.

“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Stiles sighs, exhaustion making him more honest than he’d like.

 _“You must be pretty out of it,”_ Derek says drily.

“Maybe,” Stiles admits. “I mean, you’re a total asshole, but you have your virtues. Like, hey, I bet you’re really good at opening cans with those claws of yours. That’s something, right, buddy?” Derek makes an exasperated sound and Stiles knows that he has effectively killed the moment. Good. He doesn’t need any more sappy shit coming out of his mouth.

“Ooh! And you’re really good at not making friends! And glaring at people. And making horrible plans. And doing unnecessary backflips.” Stiles is grinning now, enjoying himself.

 _“Go to sleep, Stiles,”_ Derek growls.

“I _was_ asleep,” Stiles argues. “Now, I’m up. This is your fault.”

_“You could’ve ignored the call.”_

“No, I couldn’t have, everyone I know is either a werewolf, has an impressive collection of weapons, or has a killer set of lungs and a mean streak that has only grown stronger with time. I didn’t want one of you to get pissed and, like, eat or maim me. I’m too pretty to die.”

Derek, honest to god, laughs. _“You’re an idiot.”_

“Idiot by association,” Stiles reminds him, smiling. “Which reminds me, what did you do with your sweats? I haven’t seen them since we bought them.”

 _“Why, are you worried that I threw them away?”_ Derek asks, sounding amused.

“Well, I wasn’t, but now I am,” Stiles says. _“Did_ you?”

_“Nah, I still have them. I need to take them down to the laundry mat.”_

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Just bring your clothes over tomorrow after school, you can wash here.”

 _“I— what about your dad?”_ Stiles blinks, caught off guard. This is the second time Derek has asked him about his dad.

“What _about_ my dad?”

_“Won’t he be there?”_

Stiles shrugs and then remembers that Derek can’t see him. “Maybe. He works, but he might get off early.”

_“And you don’t think he’ll care that I’m hanging out with you, doing laundry.”_

“Why would he? He already knows we’re friends.” _Thinks we’re more than._ Stiles grits his teeth. “Why all this sudden interest in what my father thinks?”

 _“No reason,”_ Derek says unconvincingly.

“Right,” Stiles says, too tired to press the issue further. “Well, I’m gonna go back to sleep, and I’d just like you to know that tomorrow when I’m falling asleep during class, it’ll be all your fault.”

Derek snorts. _“Noted.”_

“Night, big guy,” Stiles mumbles, eyes already closing.

_“Night, Stiles.”_

-

He wakes up with his phone glued to the side of his face.

—

“You told Derek he had to apologize to Isaac?”

Scott looks over at him and shrugs. “Well, yeah. He has to if he wants to be in my pack.”

“Who said he wants to be in your pack?” Stiles asks incredulously. “And since when is it even _your_ pack?”

“Uh, since I became Alpha?” Scott gives him a look that says, _duh._ “And of course he wants to be in my pack. My pack is the best pack _ever.”_

Stiles stares at him. “And you honestly believe that, don’t you.”

Scott smiles guilelessly. “Yup. I mean, c’mon, dude. We got you and Isaac and Boyd, a hunter,” he lists off. “We have a freaking _banshee,_ man! Who else has a banshee in their pack? No one, that’s who.”

Lydia breezes in, taking her seat next to Stiles. “What about a banshee?” she asks.

Scott repeats what he said, including the ‘best pack ever!’ thing, and Lydia raises her eyebrows. “You could have a banshee. What’s in it for me?”

Scott sputters and shoots Stiles a look like, _dude, help_ , but Stiles just says, “Yeah, I don’t remember agreeing to be in your pack either; sorry, buddy.”

Scott looks at him in disbelief, until Stiles starts laughing. “Oh, you’re such a dick,” Scott says, punching him in the shoulder.

Stiles groans and clutches his arm. “C’mon, dude, _human.”_

—

Monday evening finds Stiles sitting atop his dryer, gleefully watching Derek attempt to figure out how to work the washer. Derek, who has been alternating between muttering curses at the machine and pushing random buttons for going on fifteen minutes, suddenly tenses. He falls silent, but continues prodding at the machine while Stiles looks on in amusement.

A hand falls on his shoulder and Stiles looks over, startled to see his father who had, apparently, just arrived from his shift at the station. “Son. Hale.”

“Oh, hey, Dad,” Stiles says, cheerful.

His father pats him absently on the shoulder, but his eyes never leave Derek.

“Stiles said it was alright if I washed here,” Derek says, sounding almost defensive.

The sheriff casually rests his hand on the butt of his gun. “Did he now.”

Stiles glances between his father and Derek, confused.

They stare at each other until the sheriff finally breaks the glare-off, saying, “Stiles, would you mind getting me a glass of water? I’m parched.”

Stiles nearly scoffs. ‘Parched.’ Who _says_ that.

“What’s—” going on, Stiles starts to ask, but he catches Derek shake his head out of the corner of his eye and drops it. “Fine. Ice or no ice?” he asks his dad.

“Yeah, sure,” John says.

Stiles gives his dad a weird look, but hops off the dryer and makes his way towards the kitchen. He catches a few words as he’s walking away.

_“—you doing here? I thought we had an understanding.”_

_“It’s not what you think. We’re just—”_ Stiles is too far away now to get the rest of it. He’s almost tempted to sneak back, but with Derek’s hearing and his father…being his father, he decides not to even bother trying.

When he returns, he finds his father and Derek squabbling over the washing machine.

“—pretty sure that’s not what you do,” Derek is saying.

“Oh, I see. Now you’re an expert,” John says, scowling. He jabs at the buttons, muttering, “Trying to tell me how to work my own damn washing machine.” The washer starts hissing and spitting out soap suds.

Instead of offering assistance, Stiles leans against the doorframe and watches as his father curses the machine, much like Derek had earlier.

“Goddammit,” John grumbles as the washer shudders. It suddenly starts draining what little water it was holding, and he throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what to do with this. The old one, I knew how to work. But this?” He shakes his head in disgust. “Does it really need this many buttons? This isn’t Starfleet; I’m a cop for Christ’s sake.”

Derek snorts. “Let me guess, Stiles talked you into buying it.”

“That kid can talk just about anyone into just about anything,” John says ruefully. They share commiserating looks, and hey, when did this become an episode of ‘bonding over what a pain in the ass Stiles is?’

He loudly clears his throat, and they startle, giving him matching looks of not-quite-guilt.

Stiles narrows his eyes at them. “Why don’t I help you with that?” he says, shoving the glass of water at his father’s chest and shooing them out of the way.

“I think he heard us,” his father tells Derek.

“He’s probably gonna be all pissy for the rest of the night,” Derek agrees.

“Nothing for it now,” John sighs.

Stiles thinks he liked it better when they were arguing.

-

The rest of the night passes by in a blur.

A blur of horror and shame.

Whatever Derek and his dad had been fighting about earlier no longer seems to be an issue. His father spends half of the evening recounting tales of Stiles’ many _(many)_ childhood blunders while Derek pays rapt attention, shushing Stiles every time he tries to protest (“stop it Dad ohmygod Dad no please Derek doesn’t want to hear the mall Santa story”) to this cruel and unusual punishment, and the other half, they spend talking about Stiles like he isn’t there.

“I don’t know how you do it, kid,” John says to Derek. “I’d be tearing my hair out.”

“Eh, he’s not _that_ bad,” Derek replies. “I’ve found that it’s best to have the tv on at all times when he’s over, though. It’s the only time he stays quiet. Well, relatively quiet.”

John tips his bottle of beer to him, and Derek raises his own in response. “But that’s nothing compared to what you probably have to deal with. I mean, you have to _live_ with him.” Derek shudders.

“Really,” Stiles says. _“Really?”_

They barely spare him a glance.

He nearly dies of humiliation when his father pulls out his baby album. They sit on either side of Stiles and flip through the pages, John keeping a running commentary, “—And this was taken after the first time Stiles went potty all by himself, look at him, he’s so proud—”

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Stiles tells Derek.

“Don’t be rude, son. Derek is our guest,” John says, not quite managing to keep a straight face.

“As soon as you’re of age, I am putting you in a home,” Stiles grumbles under his breath.

Two hands slap him on the back of the head.

And Stiles is done. Anymore of this, this father-Derek _thing_ they have going _,_ and he’s going to scream and/or possibly snap.

“Where’re you going?” his father asks him.

“I’m gonna go out back and summon Satan,” Stiles answers, voice false bright. “I need to ask him a few things. Like why I’ve been sentenced to Hell before my due time.” He trudges up the steps to his room, and hurdles himself at his bed, wondering if he did something horrible in a past life. Like start a world war, or create Internet Explorer.

-

“Funny little shit, isn’t he,” John says, chuckling.

“Yeah. He’s…something,” Derek answers with a slight smile, watching Stiles stomp up the stairs.

John finishes off his beer. “You know this doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.”

Derek’s smile fades. He looks down at his hands, and fiddles with his beer bottle. “I know, sir. And I told you, it’s not like that.”

The sheriff waves him off. “It’s John.” Derek doesn’t respond. John sighs and sets his empty bottle on the coffee table. “Alright, kid. How much money have you got on you?”

Derek checks his pockets, looking slightly confused. “About thirty in cash, why?”

“Because I’m about to kick your ass at poker.”

-

Derek knocks lightly on his door. Stiles looks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, notes and flashcards surrounding him. “You’re still here?”

Derek takes the desk chair. “Yeah. Your dad wanted me to tell you that he’s going in early tomorrow and that he’ll be gone before you wake up.”

Stiles stares at him, waiting for him to continue. “And?”

“And what?”

“I already knew that,” Stiles says. “He told me yesterday. And again this morning.”

Derek looks puzzled. “Oh.” He shrugs. “Maybe he just wanted to remind you.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says absently. It’s weird, but not really weird enough to raise any red flags, so Stiles lets it go. He turns back to his notes. “So what were you two doing? Going through more of my baby photos? Talking about how horrible it must be to live with me?”

“You know we were just messing around,” Derek says.

“Sure, you were,” Stiles says with a sarcastic eyeroll. “‘I’ve found the best way to keep him quiet is to turn the tv on?’ What am I, a monkey?”

“Of course not,” Derek responds, “that would be insulting to the monkey.”

Stiles throws a book at Derek’s head.

Derek catches it easily and turns it over. “Oh, good. I didn’t get to finish this the last time I was here.”

“Give that back,” Stiles protests. “I need it for the English final tomorrow.”

“Do you need it right now?” Derek asks.

Stiles considers it. “Well, not _right now,_ right now.”

“Then I’ll read it until you need it,” Derek says reasonably.

Stiles sticks his tongue out, because he is nothing if not _un_ reasonable.

-

“Your dad really loves you, you know.”

Stiles looks up from his notes, surprised.

“I know that.” He does, he’s never doubted that, not even when his dad is angry at him—or worse—disappointed. The disappointment is only there because his father loves him and expects him to do better.

Also, the various disappointments over the years have not all the time been 100% unwarranted.

“I miss my dad.”

Stiles stares at him, jaw slack.

Derek looks away from the book and meets Stiles’ wide eyes, face completely neutral. “I should let you get back to your studying.” He closes the book and gets up, carrying it over to Stiles, no longer looking at him. And Stiles, well, Stiles can’t let him leave like that.

“Stay,” he demands. He thrusts a list of practice questions at Derek, shaking it under his nose when he doesn’t immediately respond. “Come on, you can quiz me.”

Derek gives him a wary look, but after a long moment accepts the worksheet, dragging the desk chair over so he can throw his feet up on the bed. He reads the first question.

“What are the three slogans of the Party?”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength.”

“What are the Thought Police?”

They carry on that way until they reach the end of the worksheet. By that time, it’s well past midnight.

Stiles flops backwards onto his bed with a groan. “I swear to God, if I fail this test after how much studying I’ve put into it, I’m going to—”

“Whine about it a lot?” Derek finishes for him.

Stiles reaches around until he finds a pen and flings it in Asswolf’s approximate direction. “Shut up, dick.”

“Pathetic,” Derek laughs, catching the pen easily though he hadn’t been in danger of being struck by it. The pass had gone wide. Really wide. Stiles grunts in disgust, rubbing his temples. He seriously does not know how he has not yet developed a complex from being around all of these super ripped, effortlessly good-at-everything werewolves.

“Headache?” Derek asks, noticing the forehead rubbing.

“Little one,” Stiles says. “It’s fine, I’ll just run downstairs and get some- aspirin.” His voice falters as Derek leans forward and pushes his hands aside, fingers gently pressing against his temples.

Derek is… close. They blink at each other, eyes wide, saying nothing. Stiles is struck by how strange Derek’s eyes are, but not at all in a bad way. He can’t pinpoint their color for the life of him.

Stiles clears his throat nervously, and they both look away.

It’s a superficial headache, most likely due to stress, and it doesn’t take long for it to disappear completely.

Derek withdraws his hand. “Better?”

“Much,” Stiles sighs gratefully. “Thanks, man. You’re the best.”

“No problem.” Derek pauses by the door on his way out. “Oh, and try not to screw up too much on your finals. They’re a pretty big deal, or so I’ve been told.”

‘Cause that’s something he needed to hear right before he went to sleep.

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters after him. Derek leaves, smirking.

—

 _“Derek had a secret girlfriend once, you know,” Peter says casually. “Back before the fire. He never told us, but we could smell her on him.” He smiles. On the surface it looks normal, charming even, but Stiles can see the malice behind it, the anger. “We thought it was…_ cute.”

 _“Save story time for someone that actually cares, Peter,” Stiles says blandly. He’d come here to hand off the information Scott had asked him to give to Derek, not whatever this was_.

_Even so, he has to admit his curiosity is piqued._

_“I always did wonder who it was,” Peter continues, like Stiles hadn’t said anything. “I was planning on following him, seeing for myself. It must’ve slipped my mind, what with the death of my family and half of my face being burnt off,” he muses, voice introspective._

_“Yeah, poor you,” Stiles says, managing to put some sarcasm behind it, even though he does feel sorry for Peter._

_Or he would, if the guy wasn’t such a head case._

_“Have you ever heard a wolf cub howl as it dies?” Peter asks, seeming genuinely curious. He pauses. “Well, maybe scream is more accurate.”_

_Stiles’ stomach churns. “Tell Derek I came by,” he says, backing away._

_“Derek’s secret girl,” Peter repeats like it still amuses him, though Stiles is getting the impression that it really doesn’t. “You know, I’d nearly forgotten about it,” he says, an odd note in his voice, and Stiles suddenly doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, he wants to_ leave.

_“Yeah, I’m gonna go now,” he says, turning, door handle in his grasp._

_Peter stays true to form, speaking as though Stiles doesn’t exist. “But then, as fate would have it, nearly eight years later, it all came flooding back.”_

_Peter’s breath is on his neck now. Stiles hadn’t even heard him approach._

_“Can you guess why?” Peter purrs, voice smooth as silk._

_Stiles hesitates, and then shakes his head._

_“It was her scent,” Peter says, laughing. “I recognized it right before I tore her throat open with my claws. Do you remember, Stiles? You were there. You helped my dear nephew kill me minutes later.”_

_-_

Stiles wakes up in a cold sweat, and pushes the dream away with a shudder.

It had happened a few months before Peter had tried to kill them all (again) and subsequently died a horrible death (again). He doesn’t know why that particular memory decided to make an appearance in his dreams tonight. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was Peter fucking with him from the afterlife by sending him creepy ass dreams. Either way, it doesn’t take Stiles very long to realize that he’s not gonna be getting anymore sleep tonight.

He considers getting up and studying, doing something productive with his time. This is his last night before the start of finals, after all. But he ends up staring at his ceiling, thinking for the rest of the night. About Derek and the not-date (that really looked like a date) with his English teacher, about Derek getting him extra curly fries without him even having to ask and making fun of him with his dad, Derek and his hands, taking Stiles’ pain.

Mostly he thinks about that conversation with Peter and what it meant, and wonders how Derek is still functioning.

—

Stiles drives straight to Derek’s after school. He knocks once before letting himself in, going straight for the couch and face planting into the cushions with a frustrated groan. He’s so _tired._

Derek watches him with a small frown. “What’s wrong,” he asks. It sounds almost strange coming out of his mouth, like he’s not quite used to asking anyone that. Then again, it could just be Stiles’ exhaustion making him read too much into things. “Did you fuck up on your test?”

Stiles waves him off without lifting his head. “Nothing, dude,” he says, voice muffled. “They were fine, I’m fine.” Not exactly true, but it’s not like Stiles can tell Derek that _he’s_ the reason Stiles is like this _._ “Just…didn’t sleep well, I guess.” That part, at least, is accurate.

Derek nods, expression shifting into something like understanding. “Hungry?” he asks.

Stiles really isn’t, his stomach is in knots from worrying about whether or not he’d completely botched his tests, he can barely remember taking them now he thinks about it, but he says yes anyway.

“I could make something,” Derek offers. “Unless you want takeout,” he adds.

Stiles sits up, gaping. “You can _cook?”_

Derek glares. “Yes, I can cook, Stiles. I’m a grown man.”

Stiles raises his hands in surrender. “Touchy subject, got it.” Derek glowers at him and disappears into the kitchen.

-

“Oh my god,” Stiles wheezes.

Derek had called him back to the kitchen almost an hour later saying that dinner was done, except when Stiles went to investigate said dinner, the only thing he found was a bowl full of mac ‘n cheese. Like, not even the fancy, homemade kind. Just regular, from-a-box Kraft mac ‘n cheese.

Oh, and Derek had served them each a glass of Mountain Dew. ‘Cause _that_ rounded out the meal.

Stiles breaks down, laughing so hard his sides ache.

“Fuck you, Stiles, are you gonna eat or not,” Derek says sullenly.

“Of course I am, how could I not when you’ve provided such a bountiful meal,” Stiles gasps, crying now.

Derek snarls at him weakly, mouth twitching up at the corners, and Stiles laughs harder, leaning against the doorframe for support.

—

It’s a testament to how sad his life has gotten that he’s not even surprised when he comes home the next day and finds Lydia on his bed painting her toenails, watching a movie on his laptop. He’s not really sure how she figured out his password, and he’s not gonna ask. He’s almost positive that the answer would frighten him.

“Oh, hey, Stiles,” Lydia says, barely noticing his arrival.

“Your majesty,” he greets her drily, dumping his backpack on his desk. Considering they got out of school at the same time, Stiles is not clear on how she got here before him with time enough to stop off for coffee—and no, she hadn’t brought any for Stiles. He’d asked; she’d laughed.

“How was your History final?” she asks, closing up the nail polish and putting it in the top drawer of his nightstand.

“I think it went well actually,” he says before adding with a frown, “which means I probably failed. How was your…French…” He trails off as he watches Lydia rifle through his drawer and pull out a nail file and a bottle of purple polish. One that looks very much like the color Stiles had to literally beg Allison to remove from his fingernails.

She shuts the drawer and begins filing her nails. “It was easy, I finished in under fifteen minutes. I got to leave early.” Well, that answers that question at least, but what it doesn’t answer is why there is _nail polish_ in his _nightstand_.

Stiles walks across the room, dread pooling in his stomach, and with a trembling hand, opens the drawer.

It is full, _full_ of Lydia’s shit. _Full._ Nail polish, buffers, nail clippers, acetone, cotton balls, hair ties, jewelry, make up, make up _remover_.

Stiles draws back in horror, slamming the abomination closed.

_What has she done to the Bat Cave._

“Are you going somewhere else or are you sticking around?” Lydia asks like this is her home and he is somehow the one intruding. It snaps him out of his downward spiral—though, he is still (barely) resisting the urge to start beating his head against the wall.

“Well, I was just stopping by to grab my charger and see if my dad was here before I headed to Derek’s,” he answers unwillingly. He doesn’t mind Lydia knowing when he’s planning on spending time with Derek; what he minds are the questions and the knowing looks.

“Wearing that?” she asks, tone critical.

And so it begins.

“Yeah,” he answers shortly. Obviously. What else is he gonna wear?

Lydia pays him no mind, marching over to his closet and rooting through it. “Hmm.” She glances out the window and nods like whatever she sees has helped her make up her mind. Stiles looks out, too, and sees nothing but a bunch of dark clouds. He’ll probably never understand the way Lydia’s mind works.

It’s for the best. The world is already enough of a frightening place.

“Here.” She shakes a few items of clothing at him.

“Why do I need to change? I’m just going to Derek’s. I could wear a trash bag and he probably wouldn’t give two shits.” He might slip in a few insults, but that’s about it.

“Stiles.”

“But, Lydia—”

“Put them on,” Lydia says, voice steely and cold and leaving no room for argument.

Stiles hates his life.

-

Stiles sprints from his jeep to Derek’s building and still somehow manages to end up drenched. To make matters worse, it would appear that he’s forgotten his key. He’s been keeping it on a separate key ring since Derek had confiscated the last one (key number three), and, as it turns out, it was really stupid of him.

So because of his lack of foresight, he’s forced to stand, shivering, on Derek’s doorstep, hands shoved under his armpits until Derek finally deigns to let him in an entire three minutes later.

“Holy f-fucking god, of a-all the days to take your time,” Stiles chatters.

Derek sighs loudly, closing the door behind him. “You're the idiot that didn’t bring an umbrell- uh, Stiles, what are you doing.”

Stiles flails, arms hopelessly entangled in the sweater—Lydia and her illogically tight clothes will be the death of him, he swears—and groans, feeling pathetic. “Please help me before I die in here.”

Derek snorts softly, but helps him get the damn thing off, gently tugging it over his head and tossing it aside.

“You’re such a dweeb,” Derek says, sounding almost fond.

The words barely register. Stiles is too busy focusing on the large, warm hand resting on the bare skin of his hip. He feels himself turning bright red, a flush spreading down his chest, and Derek jerks away, coughing.

“I have a— shirt, you want a. I’ll go get you— something. Clothes. You need clothes.” He doesn’t wait for a response, all but running away.

It’s a little weird, but then Derek is a little weird so Stiles decides not to read too much into it. He shrugs and starts unbuttoning his pants, kicking his shoes aside.

Derek returns less than a minute later with an armful of clothing. “Let me know if they’re too… big….” He trails off as he catches sight of Stiles struggling to get his jeans off.

He’d managed to get them down past his ass, no problem, but then his progress had slowed way down, the sopping wet fabric clinging to his thighs like a lifeline. Probably doesn’t help that the stupid things were skintight to begin with.

“Dammit, Lydia,” he mutters after he nearly falls over trying to pull the pants off from around his ankles. He hears a small choked-off sound and glances up, startled.

Derek is squinting intently at the ceiling, face a soft pink, and Stiles realizes that he’d just started stripping in the middle of Derek’s living room and is now standing there in nothing but his underwear.

Underwear that are soaked from the rain and probably clinging to him tighter than those freaking jeans.

“Shit.” Stiles snatches the pair of sweats Derek had grabbed for him and hastily shoves his feet in, well-aware that his face is flaming as he pulls them up around his waist and drags Derek’s shirt over his head.

Stiles pushes away his panic and plasters on a smile. “Sorry about that, buddy. Didn’t mean to traumatize you or anything.” The smile falters when he sees the way Derek can’t quite manage eye contact.

“I-” Derek clears his throat. “I have boxers. If you want. Your- uh,” he gestures vaguely toward Stiles’ lower half, “looked pretty wet.”

Stiles blushes harder, but does his best to appear unaffected. “Uh, yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, that’s probably smart. Kind of defeats the purpose of all these dry clothes if I keep them on, doesn’t it.”

Derek nods curtly. “Top drawer on the left,” is all he says, and then he disappears inside the kitchen.

“Right,” Stiles mutters to himself.

He approaches Derek’s room with caution, checking over his shoulder multiple times just in case this is a set up of some kind. It’s not that Derek has expressly forbid him from entering his lair; it's more that Stiles has been a frequent flyer at Casa Hale for a while now and he’s never so much as caught a glimpse of the inside of Derek’s room.

It’s bigger than he’s expecting. And furnished, which is another surprise. Well, there’s a bed and a closet and a small chest of drawers in the corner under the window at least. For Derek, it’s on par with hiring an interior decorator.

Stiles opens the one on the top left, as per Derek’s instructions, and grabs the first pair of boxers he sees, exchanging them for his wet clothing quickly.

He’s sorely tempted to snoop, even someone as secretive and paranoid as Derek has to have some interesting shit lying around, but he fights the urge, knowing without a doubt that Derek would hear him poking around and ban him from coming over for a while. Or just straight up murder him, which would suck in its own way, too.

On his way out, he catches a glimpse of something bright and familiar out of the corner of his eye in Derek’s bed. His blanket is peeking out from beneath Derek’s comforter, the bright blue sticking out obnoxiously against the darker hues of Derek’s bedding.

It makes him feel warm inside, for whatever reason, knowing Derek sleeping with it wasn’t just a one time thing.

Derek is mopping up the water Stiles had left all over the walkway when he returns. 

“Oh, dude, let me do that,” Stiles says, feeling bad, but Derek just shakes his head.

“I’m done; don’t worry about it.” He glances at Stiles, eyes flickering downwards for a second. “Did you find them?”

Stiles can feel yet another blush coming on, but he’s determined to play it cool.

“Yep,” he chirps, snapping them against his hip. “They’re super comfortable, too. You just might not get these back.”

Derek snorts. “Fine by me; I was planning on burning them after you were done with them anyway.” He turns on his heel, taking the mop with him.

Stiles tries his best to seem offended. “I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you _and_ these boxers.”

Derek arches a brow at him skeptically over his shoulder. “If you say so.”

Stiles gapes back disbelievingly.

Derek shoots him a wide smile before he rounds the corner. Stiles drops the act and grins.

“I hung the rest of your clothes up in the bathroom to dry, by the way, if you want to put those in there, too,” Derek calls from the kitchen.

And he would, of course, be referring to the pair of underwear Stiles is still holding in his hands.

“Or you could just continue carrying them around the entire time you’re here because that’s not weird at all,” Derek adds, the smirk in his voice growing.

Stiles makes a face in his general direction and grumbles all the way to the bathroom.

Of course, his annoyance leaves him almost immediately when he sees all the trouble Derek had gone through, wringing out his wet clothes and hanging them up in a neat little line above the bathtub. Then he just feels bad again. 

“Hey, seriously though,” Stiles says when he returns to the living room, “Thank you. I’m sorry about the mess.”

Derek sets a glass of water down in front of him and snorts. “Save it. I’m used to cleaning up after you by now.” He nudges Stiles over until there’s an acceptable amount of room for him to sit down.

“I’m not that bad,” Stiles tries, but Derek just grins to himself and shakes his head.

“Yeah, you are.”

Stiles doesn’t argue. He’s probably right. 

“Oh, yeah, I got you something.” Derek pushes Stiles over and reaches behind one of the couch cushions.

Stiles perks up. “A present? For me?”

Derek already looks as if he’s regretting it, and he hasn’t even handed it over yet. “You don’t have to make it a big thing,” he mumbles, half-heartedly pushing Stiles’ gift into his hands.

Stiles definitely does not let out a large gasp _. “Are you kidding me, you got me the eighth season of Supernatural do you have any idea how much I love you right now.”_  He flings himself at Derek. “I don’t care what anyone says about you; you are a beautiful, beautiful person, inside and out.”

Derek struggles against his hold, hissing, “Get the fuck off of me, Stiles.”

Stiles squeezes him tighter. “I’ll never let you go, Jack.”

Derek goes still, holding his arms stiffly at his sides and breathing slowly through gritted teeth. “Stiles. Get off of me. Before I murder you.”

“Not until you hug me back,” Stiles sing-songs.

“Stiles.”

“Yes, dear.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Not nice, honeypot,” Stiles tells him. “Still waiting for my hug.”

Derek growls and Stiles laughs at him, enjoying Derek’s obvious misery more than he should. It occurs to him that Derek could just push him off if he really wanted to, but Stiles shakes the thought off. What is he thinking, of course Derek doesn’t want Stiles to hug him.

But then Derek heaves a world-weary sigh and winds his arms around Stiles’ middle, one hand placed hesitantly in the center of his back, the other pulling him in a little closer, and Stiles is maybe a little bit surprised at how well they fit together. They shouldn’t, because Stiles and Derek aren’t supposed to be compatible in any way, shape, form; it’s a miracle they’re _friends_ for fuck’s sake (or possibly someone’s idea of a really fucked up joke). But they do.

Fit well together, that is.

After a moment of silence—awkward, weighted silence—Stiles says, “Now that’s better, isn’t it,” all patronizing and snotty. He feels a puff of air against his hair as Derek exhales his annoyance.

“No. Get the fuck off me.”

Stiles obliges with a laugh.

-

Somewhere between the second episode—Mrs. Tran is pretty badass—and the fourth—werewolves—Stiles’ stomach starts roaring. “Hey, wanna get some food? Like, order in,” Stiles clarifies. “No offense to your cooking or anything, but I’ve been wanting Mr. Lu’s.”

Derek scowls. “My cooking is _fine_ , Stiles.”

Stiles nods. “Oh, yeah. Totally.”

“Asshole,” Derek mutters, pulling out his phone.

-

Stiles grimaces when he reads his fortune.

_Your actions reveal your thoughts more than you realize._

He glances at Derek as he reads his own fortune and flushes, and wonders whether he’s thinking about Ms. Blake. Stiles scowls.

“What’s yours say?” Derek asks. Stiles sighs and hands it over, taking Derek’s.

Stiles frowns. “Wait. Why’d you hand me mine back?”

“I didn’t, I gave you mine,” Derek says.

“But—”

They hold their fortunes up side by side.

“Did we get the same fortune?” Stiles asks. “Does that even happen?”

“Apparently,” Derek says.

“No fucking way, I have to show Scott.” Stiles pulls his phone out and hits the camera app. The first two attempts come out blurry. “How difficult is it to hold it _still_ , Derek?”

“I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up over this. They’re fucking fortune cookies.”

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” Stiles says, sending a useable picture to Scott.

Derek looks confused. “What?”

“Well, I know what we’re watching next,” Stiles says.

 **Scott -** **« D: _no fucking way man!_** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_That’s what I said!_ ** **»**

His heart nearly stops when Derek leans in to read the text messages over his shoulder. He gives Stiles the Eyebrows of Judgment. “You guys are idiots.”

Personal space is optional with werewolves, as Stiles has long since come to learn, but Derek’s close, closer than normal, and Stiles kind of gets caught up in his ridiculous-ass eyes again, so much so that it takes a minute for him to realize that Derek is probably waiting for a response of some kind.

“Takes one to know one,” Stiles says, five seconds too slow. Derek doesn’t seem to notice.

He knocks his shoulder into Stiles’ and finally, _finally_ draws back.

Stiles rereads his fortune before he stuffs it into his pocket. _Your actions reveal your thoughts more than you realize._

God, he really hopes that isn’t true.

-

Something is covering his face.

Panic seizes his throat, making it even more difficult to breathe, until he realizes that he’s not being smothered, he’s just got his face buried in a pillow.

He shifts onto his side and sees Derek frozen above him, blanket in hand.

“Tucking and running again, are we,” Stiles asks, unable to keep the amused note from his voice.

Derek thaws, rolling his eyes. “Why would I run? This is my house,” he says, throwing the blanket over Stiles’ face and walking away.

“What happened to the tucking Stiles in thing?” Stiles complains, pushing the blanket off of his face. “Did my waking up ruin the magic?”

He hears Derek snort. “Yes, Stiles, that’s exactly what happened.”

“Knew it. Hey, what time is it?”

“Four,” Derek answers. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up in a couple hours so you can go home.”

“Okay,” Stiles yawns, reaching back and adjusting the pillow. Wait, “Did you bring me a pillow?”

Derek scowls back. “Did you not want a pillow?”

Stiles thinks about it. “Well yeah, but—”

“Then shut up and go to sleep.” Derek flicks off the light, and after his eyes adjust, Stiles can see him stalking to his room.

“Fine,” Stiles grumbles, pulling his blanket over his toes and hey. “Did you take my shoes off?”

“Did you want to sleep with them on?” Derek shoots back, a growl in his voice.

“So not only were you going to tuck me in, you brought me one of your pillows and you took my shoes off for me.” Stiles blows him a kiss. “You’re too good to me.”

Derek slams his door.

Stiles rolls back onto his stomach and buries his face back into the pillow. It smells really good.

—

He doesn’t know why he does it.

No, that’s a lie, he does know why. It’s because things have been good, great really. Different in the best way. He’s been noticing Derek smiling at him more often, watching him with a hint of something warm and different, and he starts letting himself think maybe.

Maybe it isn’t just him.

“We should go out sometime,” he blurts.

Derek raises his eyebrows, looking amused. “We just did, Stiles.” It was Thursday night, the last day of finals—and also the official start of Winter Break—and Stiles had somehow managed to talk Derek into taking him to a movie to celebrate.

“No, I know,” Stiles says, cheeks heating. “I mean _out_ , out. Like, you know… on a date.”

Derek’s smiles falters. “Oh.” His hands twitch at his sides. “I don’t. That’s- Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Stiles shrugs like it’s not a big deal, like this doesn’t hinge on everything. “Sure, why not?”

Derek gives him a strange look, drops his gaze because Stiles is looking right back at him, probably a bit too intense, and shuffles his feet.

“Look, Stiles. You’re—” Derek’s eyes find his again, but they’re distant now, decided. “You’re my friend. And you’re young.” Stiles stares at him, and Derek nods like he’s trying to convince him, convince _himself_. “You’re young, and—”

“No, I’m not,” Stiles interrupts, because it’s true _._ He’s been shot at and threatened and kidnapped and beaten on by monsters and geriatric psychopaths alike.

He’s killed.

Well, okay, maybe not killed. He’s never dealt the killing blow himself, but his hands aren’t exactly clean. He’s saved people, and they might not appreciate it and in most cases even _know_ it, but he _has_ and he’s not young. His driver’s license may say he’s only sixteen, but he feels a hell of a lot older than that.

Derek seems to understand what he’s not saying.

“You are in the way it counts.”

Stiles sets his jaw stubbornly, refusing to hear what Derek’s telling him even if it makes sense. There are laws for a reason. Stiles was raised by a cop; he gets that better than most people his age.

He thought he did anyway.

“You think your dad would be happy if you brought someone like me home?” Derek asks. “Someone he’s _arrested_ before?”

“Don’t give me that, okay. I _have_ brought you home before. My dad likes you.” Stiles fumes. Bringing his dad into this is just fucking low. His dad would be happy if Stiles was happy.

Probably.

Okay, eventually.

Derek goes on, though, knowing he’s struck a nerve. “You think he’d hesitate to arrest me again if he thought I’d laid a finger on you, consensual or otherwise?”

Stiles stares at Derek in disappointment. _“This_ is your argument? This is why we can’t—” he gestures around vaguely because he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for here with Derek, for a relationship, for sex, for marriage and babies, for all of the above. “Because that is the lamest excuse I’ve heard in my _life_. And I am best friends with the frigging _king_ of lame excuses, Derek.”

“It’s not why we can’t,” Derek snarls. Stiles flinches away from him, a knee jerk reaction, and Derek’s features fill with something near regret.

His tone is more collected when he speaks again. “I just don’t. I don’t think that—” He shakes his head and drags a hand roughly through his hair, unable or unwilling to finish that thought. “You’re _sixteen,”_ he says. “You’re sixteen and I’m twenty-five.”

Stiles frowns slightly, because yeah, that was a bigger age difference than he was expecting, but they could make it work, it would be _fine._

But then Derek says, “And this thing with Jen, it’s—”

Stiles takes a step back, not wanting to hear what this thing with Jen is. Derek falls silent.

He’d thought they weren’t together, because that’s what Derek had _told_ him, but that was obviously not the case.

“Got it. You and Jen. Cool.” He gives Derek a lopsided smile and leaves before he can make an even bigger ass out of himself.

Derek doesn’t try to stop him.

—

Stiles goes to Scott’s to sulk. He almost immediately regrets it.

He decides to go through the window, because if werewolves can treat windows as a house’s second entrance, then so can Stiles. He hears Scott and Isaac speaking quietly as he climbs. They don’t seem to have heard him yet, but he’s certain they will. They’re _werewolves,_ for chrissakes.

He gets a leg over the windowsill and looks up to complain to Scott about his window being unnecessarily high, and freezes.

Because his best friend apparently had not heard him. His best friend is currently on top of a certain blonde curly-headed werewolf and there are hands that are not where they’re meant to be. Or at least not where Stiles never wanted to see them. Meaning Scott’s hands are inside Isaac’s pants and Isaac’s are on Scott’s very bare— _ohgodsobare_ —ass.

Once Stiles’ brain catches up with what he’s seeing, the grip he has on the windowsill fails and he falls. He, thankfully, falls on the _inside_ of the house and not to the ground _outside_ , which is wonderful because falling from that distance would’ve been no bueno for Stiles.

Scott and Isaac break apart, startled at the noise, but make no move to help him or, y’know, stop groping each other. Stiles grumbles and pushes himself to his feet, glaring at them accusingly—because obviously, this is  _their_ fault—and trudges over to Scott’s bed, crawling in next to Isaac.

He stares silently at Scott’s familiar ceiling until Scott says, “Stiles.”

He sighs. “Yeah, buddy.”

“Remember that talk we had about boundaries, and you needing them?”

Stiles thinks about it. “Not really, no.” Isaac buries his face in Scott’s neck, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Scott shoots him a disbelieving look over Isaac’s head. “That explains so much.”

Stiles snorts and then covers his face with his hands and lets out a muffled groan. “I fucked up.”

Scott goes from mild irritation to concern in a heartbeat. “What happened?”

“I asked Derek if he wanted to go out sometime,” Stiles mumbles. “Like _out,_ out.”

Scott looks surprised, but he takes it in stride. “What’d he say?”

“He told me I was too young,” Stiles says with a laugh. “I’ve spent the last three months trying to get him to warm up to me, and he finally did, we were _friends_ and now—” Stiles grinds his palms into his eyes. Now they’d go back to being nothing and Derek would go back to treating Stiles like his very existence was an affront to nature and Stiles would have to pretend like he wasn’t in love with the asshole.

Shit.

It’s the first time he’s admitted to himself that he’s in love with Derek.

Not that it’s surprising. Of course he’d fall for Derek. He’s a masochist. There’s something in his _genetic makeup_ that leads him to love people that can’t or won’t reciprocate his feelings. And why should they? Sure, he’s brilliant and has a great sense of humor and look at him, he’s _gorgeous_ , but the bad definitely outweighs the good.

What is Stiles but a hyperactive fuck up.

It isn’t until Scott climbs over Isaac and wraps him up in a warm hug that Stiles realizes that his face is wet. He mumbles something about leaky ceilings and eye-sweat that Scott ignores.

“It’s okay, buddy. You cry as long as you need to,” he says, tightening his arms.

“I’m gonna go get something to eat,” Isaac says quietly, giving them space. No one mentions the fact that Scott is hugging Stiles without his clothes on.

Stiles’ eyes eventually stop leaking _(that’s what they were doing and no one can tell him any different)_ and Scott pulls back to look at him, hands gripping Stiles’ shoulders tightly.

“You gonna be okay?” Scott asks him, eyes sad.

Stiles makes his mouth turn up at the corner and hopes it looks more convincing than it feels. “I’ll be fine.”

“Course you will,” Scott says, like it’s a given. “You’re Stiles.”

Yeah, that’s the problem.

He doesn’t say that, though. He lets Scott live with the delusion that Stiles will bounce back, because Stiles always bounces back, no matter what life throws at him. His mom dying, getting his best friend bitten by a werewolf, nearly getting killed on several different occasions _because_ he got his best friend bitten by a werewolf, the not-so-much love of his life falling in love with the very-much-so hate of his life (that was totally a thing).

Getting over a werewolf with serial killer eyebrows should be a walk in the park—though not the park in Beacon Hills. That place is to be avoided at all costs. Evil lurks there.

Stiles sniffles and wipes his nose on Scott’s pillow.

“Dude, _gross!”_

Stiles pinches him in the side _(“Ow, what the fuck, Stiles”)_ and hisses, “When were you planning on telling me about you and Isaac!”

Scott opens his mouth and then snaps it shut, giving him a sheepish look. “I was going to.” Which is  _so_ reassuring. “Eventually,” Scott says.

Stiles punches him in the arm, and _ow,_ horrible idea _._ He rolls around cradling his fist, whining about werewolves and their stupidly hard muscles.

Isaac appears in the doorway, a bag of Doritos in hand. “I don’t mind your stupidly hard muscles, Scott,” he leers. “The harder the better, I say.”

Stiles claps his hands over his ears. “Unnecessary!” Scott and Isaac are laughing at him outright. “You guys are assholes, I’m leaving.”

The door to Scott’s bathroom opens, and Allison comes out in one of Isaac’s t-shirts, her hair wrapped up in a towel and Scott’s toothbrush dangling from her mouth.

“Who’s leaving?” she asks. She sees Stiles and takes the toothbrush out of her mouth, wagging her eyebrows. “Oh, hey, are we gonna start sleeping with Stiles, too?”

Stiles kind of just _slumps_ off the bed.

Allison shrugs and goes back into the bathroom to finish drying her hair.

“So, I’m guessing this isn’t a good time to tell you that we’re also kind of dating Allison,” he hears Scott mumble.

Stiles makes a strangled sound.

“Did he die?” Stiles rolls around to glare at Isaac, who just gives him an angelic smile, says, “Guess not,” and pops another Dorito in his mouth.

“Isaac, honey, are you wearing my underwear again?” Allison calls from the bathroom.

Isaac pulls his pajama pants from his hip and checks. “Looks like,” he says.

Stiles starts wheezing.

Scott and Isaac are laughing at him, Allison giggling in the bathroom, and Stiles can’t tell if they’re fucking with him or not. He decides to leave and save his brain further damage.

Stiles pushes himself to his feet, saying, “Laugh it up, douchebags,” and shaking a finger at them, which only makes them laugh even more. He stumbles out of the room with another cry of, _“LAUGH IT UP.”_

He staggers down the steps, jumping when he hears, “Laugh what up?”

 _“Holy shi_ — heyyy, Mrs. McCall!”

Melissa quirks her eyebrows at him, and stirs her tea. “When’d you get here?” she asks.

Stiles doesn’t know how long he spent absolutely not crying his little heart out, so he doesn’t actually know how long he’s been there. “A little while ago,” he says. “I was gonna hang out, but Scott and Isaac are being assholes,” he grumbles, leaving out Allison because he doesn’t know if Melissa knows about all that. “I mean buttholes! Sorry, Mrs. McCall.” She doesn’t seem to mind the language.

“My boys,” Melissa says with a wry smile, patting Stiles’ cheek affectionately. Stiles is starting to wonder if her tea is laced with something a little stronger. “See you soon, kid.” She pauses at the foot of the stairs. “Oh, and lock up behind you, would you?”

Definitely boozing it, Stiles decides.

“Sure thing, Mrs. M.,” he says. “Night!”

“Night, honey.”

He’s just gotten to his jeep when he hears a chorus of, _“Bye, Stiles!”_

Scott and Isaac are leaning out the window, grinning down at him.

Stiles glares and flips them off, and jumps into his car. He casts one last look towards the window before he pulls out, and sees Allison hook her arms around their necks, dragging them back inside.

His glare fades as he drives, a small smile replacing it. He’s glad they finally worked all that out. It’s been a while since he’s seen Scott smile like that.

And he loves Scott enough to be happy for him even when he isn’t happy himself.

—

“I hope you realize that this means that I’m no longer proofreading your papers,” Stiles tells him when he climbs through his window the next day.

“But, _Stiles.”_

“No. You insist on writing everything out by hand.” The look Scott gives him says that he doesn’t see a problem with this. “Your handwriting is _atrocious,_ Scott.”

—

 **Derek -** **«**   ** _You coming over or what_** **»**

He knows what Derek is doing, giving him an out, giving him a way to brush what happened under the rug. They could pretend like it never happened. He could go over and watch tv and spend the evening eating takeout and making Derek his stupid cocoa and everything would be fine. It might be awkward for a little while, now that Derek knows how Stiles feels about him, but it would be okay in time.

He turns his phone off and sets it on his nightstand.

He doesn’t want an out. He kind of just wants to forget it ever happened.

—

He’s weak. He doesn’t even last three days.

He’d turned on his phone for the first time since Friday and found a series of messages waiting for him.

 **Scott -** **«** **_TEKKEN_ ** **»**

 **Isaac -** **«** **_TEKKEN_ ** **»**

 **Lydia -** **«** **_Why is your phone off._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   ** _I’m bored_** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Come over so we can finish season 8_** ** _._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Stiles_** **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   ** _How long are you planning on ignoring me_** **»**

 **Derek -** **«**   ** _I tried to make your stupid cocoa but it didn’t come out right_** ** _The little marshmallows melted immediately_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I have third degree burns inside my mouth_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Well I did. They healed already._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Why doesn’t it taste the same as yours_ ** **»**

 **Lydia -** **«** **_Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Lydia -** **«** **_I am going to hurt you._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I want to finish watching season 8. I haven’t seen the end yet_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_That Metatron guy ** _’_** s a dick _ ** **»**

 **Boyd -** **«** **_I’d steer clear of Lydia for a while. she’s serious about hurting u_ ** **»**

 **Allison -** **«** **_there were diagrams_ ** **»**

 **Allison -** **«** **_hide_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_It has now been five days since I’ve had decent cocoa. I hope you’re happy._ ** **»**

Scott had come over to investigate when he didn’t get a response and dragged Stiles back to his house to play Tekken with him and Isaac. Stiles had returned home the next day, only to find a note that read, _I know someone tipped you off._ _I’m going to find you,_ waiting for him on his desk. Reason number 631 he is terrified of Lydia.

The last one was sent a few hours ago and was also what had spurred him into action. Because he realized that he wasn’t happy. He was miserable. And bored. Mostly bored. There was a lot of bored-ness going on. Scott and Isaac are great, but now that Stiles is in the know about their relationship, there has been a drastic increase of inappropriate touching in plain view of Stiles. He loves Scotty, but no.

So now he’s sitting in his jeep outside of Derek’s feeling like a stalker and the cold is starting to become unbearable. He cranks the heater down to the warmest setting, but it still spits out frigid air.

“Stupid thing,” he mutters, smacking the heating vent.

He immediately strokes the dashboard in apology. “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs soothingly. “I didn’t mean it.” A particularly icy wave of air hits him in the face.

Cool. He can’t even manage to keep a good relationship with his _jeep._

Stiles sighs, resigned, and goes back to staring at Derek’s building.

“Fuck it.” He throws his car door open and hops out before his courage abandons him completely.

He’s crossing the street when Derek’s door opens and out comes Ms. Blake, pulling Derek along behind her by the hand. They’re laughing and stumbling around, and Derek isn’t dressed for how cold it is outside, but Stiles supposes things like that don’t matter when you’re a werewolf.

He wonders if she knows.

No, she couldn’t. Derek’s trust issues have trust issues. He’d wait a while before the big reveal, Stiles thinks.

They reach her car and Ms. Blake spins around and pulls Derek forward by the collar, pulls him right up against her, and Derek’s arms bracket her, hands on the roof of her shitty little Prius. She says something and Derek laughs, throwing his head back, and then she’s pulling his mouth down to hers and Derek is kissing her back and Stiles is standing there, feet frozen to the ground.

Because he’d known they were together now, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted to _see_ them together.

They pull away from each other and Derek says something too low for Stiles to hear, and Blake grins, making Derek smile in response.

His face crumples. Why would Derek want him when he could have _that._ A beautiful woman that makes him smile and laugh and probably doesn’t frequently annoy him, that he wouldn’t have to sneak around for, wouldn’t have to worry about judgmental looks or getting shot in the ass for by a protective father for.

He’s about two seconds away from having a meltdown in the middle of the street when Derek’s head snaps up and his eyes widen with some kind of emotion that Stiles doesn’t recognize.

“Stiles—”

Stiles holds up his hand, fingers spread in the most awkward greeting ever. “Hi. I’m— gonna. Go.”

“Stiles?” Ms. Blake calls, voice tinged with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

His mouth flops uselessly for a moment. “I, uh— I’m—”

“Oh, right, I forgot you knew Derek,” she says.

Stiles glances at Derek, who seems just as confused as him. “I saw you two talking at school. Remember?” Her gaze darts between them, mouth curved into an uncertain smile.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says lamely. “Yeah, me and Derek are. Friends.” He sees Derek twitch in his peripheral, but refuses to make eye contact. He can’t. He just-

Can’t.

“Well, I just came by to, uh, but I forgot I had a thing so, I’m gonna,” he hooks his thumb over his shoulder and turns away.

“Stiles, wait—”

He walks faster, fingers fumbling to get his key in the lock on his car door.

“What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” he hears Derek say after a minute. “It’s nothing.”

Stiles wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket and leaves.

—

His dad takes one look at him and his red-rimmed eyes, and sighs. “Derek?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs.

“Oh, Stiles.” His dad gets up and pulls him into a tight hug.

“I’m not crying,” Stiles says convincingly. “It’s just raining. On my face.”

“Sure it is, kid,” his father agrees tiredly. “Sure, it is.”

—

_Two missed calls: Derek_

**Derek -** **«** **_Just answer the phone._** **»**

_One missed call: Derek_

 **Derek -** **«** **_Please, Stiles_ ** **»**

-

Scott climbs in through his window a few hours later. Stiles barely blinks.

“Rough night?” Scott asks, voice dry. He has Stiles’ phone in his hands.

Well, the pieces of Stiles’ phone in his hands. Three to be exact.

Stiles sighs. Great. Now he’s probably going to have to buy a new phone on top of everything else.

“Derek?” Scott asks quietly. Stiles doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what Scott sees in his expression, but whatever it is, it makes him look sad.

Scott grabs Stiles’ arm and tugs at him until he sits up.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

“Where,” Stiles asks unenthusiastically.

“We’re getting drunk.”

“Werewolf,” Stiles reminds him dully.

“Deaton finally cracked on the werewolf-friendly booze secret,” Scott says. “All those days of wearing him down finally paid off.” Scott shakes a tiny bottle of herbs in his face, and Stiles thinks what the hell.

He could use a distraction right now.

—

Three hours later, Stiles is sprawled on Lydia’s couch, drunk as a skunk and nails black and sparkly and finally dry, which Stiles is really happy about. Lydia—who had (mercifully) put a hold on her plans to hunt him down and skin him upon seeing his face when Scott dragged him over—had resorted to smacking his hand every time he’d tried to move, and the not moving meant not drinking, and the not drinking meant that he had no way to keep up his buzz and also, that he’d had a lot of time to think about things.

Things like Derek and Jennifer’s children having absolutely zero chance of _not_ having bunny teeth. Stiles tries to convince himself that no, it would not be adorable. It doesn’t work.

He hates the cute little nonexistent bastards already.

“What’s so great about Ms. Blake?” Stiles grumbles.

Isaac hooks his chin over Scott’s shoulder and hums. “I don’t know, she’s kinda pretty.”

“Yeah, and she’s really nice,” Scott says earnestly. Isaac smiles and kisses him on the cheek, murmuring, “You’re so sweet.”

“Is she though?” Stiles asks, tone accusing. “Is she really nice? Or is she just _pretending_ to be nice. She could totally be, like, an evil fairy overlord—” He swivels his head towards Lydia, “Over-lady? Is that a thing?”

Lydia takes on a look of concentration and eventually flaps her hand around.

Stiles isn’t quite sure what that means, but no matter. “She could be an evil over-person trying to take over the world through the power of being super fucking nice and- and _pretty_ , and oh god she’s like perfect isn’t she,” he moans, cradling his head in his hands. Scott reaches over and pats him comfortingly on the shoulder.

“Why couldn’t she be _mean?_ Why is there not a law that says teachers have to be ugly and horrible?” Stiles whines.

Boyd gives him a look that clearly says, _this is me, judging you,_ from the bar where he and Allison are mixing fruity drinks and mudslides. They contain way too much alcohol, but are so sweet you can’t even tell. In other words they’re the best things in existence.

“Who are we talking about?” Ethan asks, and whoa, when did he and Danny get here. Stiles might need to slow it down on the mudslides.

“Ms. Blake,” Scott answers.

“She has nice boobs,” Lydia says, speech slurred.

“Boobs?” Stiles repeats, looking around for confirmation.

Isaac, Scott and Allison nod solemnly in agreement. Boyd shrugs like he doesn’t really care.

“Objectively, yes, she does have a nice rack,” Ethan says. Danny elbows him in the ribs. “What? I said ‘objectively!’” Danny rolls his eyes and gets up, leaving his boyfriend to join Allison and Boyd at the bar.

“Stiles, where’re y’going?” Lydia calls after him.

Stiles looks down at his feet, mildly surprised to see them moving.

“I need some air,” Stiles mutters, finding it true.

 _“What’d he say?”_ he hears someone yell from inside.

 _“He said he needs some air!”_ Scott yells back.

-

_“Hello.”_

“Is it because I don’t have, like, boobs?” Stiles slurs, stumbling over his feet.

 _“What?”_ Derek asks, sounding strangled.

Stiles huffs, irritated. “Because not everything is about boobs, Derek, okay? Not everything is about boobs.” He weaves, narrowly missing a telephone pole—fucking thing came out of nowhere _—_ and looks around, not recognizing his surroundings. He may or may not be lost.

Whatever. “I mean, I like boobs as much as the next guy— Maybe even more. Fuck, boobs are awesome, aren’t they?” Stiles laughs, and then frowns. Wait, that’s not right. There’s something he needs to tell Derek, something important.

 _“Are you drunk?”_ Derek asks.

“So what if I am,” Stiles says childishly. “What are you gonna do about it? Tell my dad?” he taunts. And then, “Dude, don’t tell my dad.”

_“Where are you, Stiles.”_

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Home, where else.”

 _“Don’t lie to me, I can hear you walking. Tell me where you are,”_ Derek commands.

“Make me,” Stiles sing-songs.

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek snaps.

Ah, the comforting sound of Derek yelling at him.

Stiles finds a nice patch of grass and sprawls out, staring at the sky.

 _“Stiles?”_ Derek repeats, sounding worried this time. Stiles scowls. Why should he be worried. He’s made it perfectly clear how he feels.

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek says loudly, back to sounding angry. _“I know you’re there, moron. And why are you using Scott’s phone?”_

Is he? Stiles tries to turn his head to look at the phone on his ear, but the phone keeps moving just out of his line of sight. He eventually gives up.

Stiles sighs at the stars. Why do they hate him? What gave them the right to decide Stiles is going to be alone for the rest of his life, destined to fall for beautiful, mystical creatures that will never feel the same about him.

Stiles lifts his hands in the air and gives the stars the finger. “Fuck you, stars, you suck ass.”

Derek snorts, and then makes an impatient sound.

_“C’mon, Stiles, just tell me where you are.”_

“I don’t know,” Stiles says honestly. He thinks about it and finally comes up with, “I was at Lydia’s, but it was too… so I wanted to get some air, but then I got lost.”

Stiles vaguely recognizes the sound of the Camaro’s engine starting up in the background. _“Just stay where you are, I’m coming to get you.”_

“Not a problem, big guy,” Stiles sighs. He’s not going anywhere.

 _“I’ll find you,”_ Derek says. _“Don’t hang up.”_

“Hmm? Mmkay.” It’s getting harder to keep his eyes open. Every time he blinks, it feels like his eyelids are fusing together.

_“Stiles, stay awake, okay?”_

“Try to,” Stiles says. Words are getting harder to manage now. “Talk to me,” he thinks to tell Derek before the power of speech leaves him entirely.

_“What do you want me to say?”_

“Nn, anything. Doesn’t matter.”

So Derek talks about his family. About his mom and how whenever one of them was sad she’d try to take care of them and feed them, but the only thing she knew how to make was mac ‘n cheese. From the box. His dad was the cook in the family. They were gone before Derek developed an interest in cooking.

He talks about how his dad liked to spoil them, and how Cora used to be a lot sweeter, how Laura used to challenge him to a fight to the death at least three times a week—his mother approved of this, though she never actually let Laura kill him, obviously. She kicked his ass every single time. He says that she was annoying and loud and a huge fucking nerd. He says that despite all that, she was still his best friend in the entire world.

“Wish I could’ve met her,” Stiles says wistfully. “Think I would’ve liked her.”

Derek barks a laugh. _“She would’ve liked you, too. I’m almost glad you’ll never meet. The two of you together would’ve driven me up the fucking wall.”_  

He talks more about his family, his happy, not-quite-normal, slightly dysfunctional family, and Stiles closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like if Derek had never lost them.

He wonders if they would even know each other.

Probably not.

-

“Holy fuck, Stiles, you’re _blue.”_

“God?” Stiles asks, blinking up at the sky in confusion, and then he gets angry because if it really is god, oh ho ho, they are going to have some _words._ Bad words. Words like _‘fuck’_ and _‘you’_ and  _‘really? Werewolves?’_

“Close.” Derek’s mouth is tugging up at the corners, but he still somehow manages to look disapproving.  Stiles doesn’t know exactly how long it took him to make the drive across town, but he has a feeling Derek made the trip a bit faster than normal.

Derek scoops him up like he’s a sack of feathers and carries him back to his car. “Christ, Stiles, what were you thinking,” Derek sighs.

Stiles’ head lolls on Derek’s shoulder, and he greedily breathes in the familiar scent clinging to Derek’s jacket. “Smells good,” Stiles says grudgingly.

Derek makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh, and Stiles thinks he feels Derek’s arm squeezing him tighter for a second. He’s drunk, though, so it’s probably his overactive imagination projecting or something.

When they get to the car—it feels like hours later, but it really couldn’t have been longer than a minute—Derek gently deposits him in the passenger’s seat and pulls his jacket off, draping it over Stiles’ shoulders. “Better?” he asks.

“Mm,” Stiles agrees, burying his nose in the soft leather.

He loses time, and suddenly Derek is opening the car door and picking him up again, even though Stiles thinks he probably could walk now—not that he’s complaining—and carrying him inside.

Derek bypasses the couch, going straight for his room.

If Stiles were sober, he might make a joke about Derek finally letting him in his bed, but as it is he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. He curls in on himself and passes out.

-

When he wakes, he’s not really sure what woke him or even where he is, all he knows is Derek is leaning over him with a dear in the headlights expression and something Stiles can’t really make out clenched in his hands.

“Sorry,” Derek blurts, after a long silence. “You were shivering.”

It takes Stiles a minute to recognize his jeans. “Oh. Thanks.”

Derek shifts, nervous as Stiles has ever seen him. “Okay, then,” Derek says. “I’ll just,” he tilts his head towards the door.

Stiles reaches out and catches his wrist. “Don’t,” he says. Derek’s shoulders tense. “Stay.”

And he shouldn’t have said it, he _really_ shouldn’t have said it—because he doesn’t need this, doesn’t need the memory of sleeping next to Derek, doesn’t need to know if Derek’s body fits perfectly next to his, if Derek snores, if Derek frowns in his sleep, too—but then Derek shouldn’t just agree to it either.

Derek looks at him and pulls his jacket off, and then his pants, and Stiles watches him the entire time, not even trying to be subtle about it. He’ll rationalize it with extreme intoxication in the morning.

Derek crawls over him instead of walking around and getting in on the other side, but he’s careful not to touch Stiles. He does stick close, though, radiating body heat that makes Stiles realize that he’s freezing. The hazards of laying in the damp grass of some random yard at one AM in December. He rolls over and pushes his way into Derek’s arms. Much better.

“We should talk,” Derek tells him, almost hesitant.

“Tomorrow,” Stiles slurs.

Derek tightens his arms. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

-

Stiles snuggles closer, and noses at the underside of his jaw.

Derek stares down at him, eyes glowing faintly. “What are you doing.”

“Nothing,” comes Stiles’ witty response.

“Right,” Derek mutters, attempting to roll away, but Stiles hangs on, not letting him go. “Stiles, I already told you, we _can’t—”_ his voice cracks as Stiles’ hands slip underneath his shirt, icy fingers on the warm skin of his back. Derek curses quietly. _“Stiles.”_

“Last time I had this dream, you were a lot less talkative,” Stiles murmurs, lips brushing against Derek’s throat.

Derek stops trying to move away, goes still as a statue and Stiles thinks, _much better,_ because now it’s easier to _touch_.

“You dream about me.” It doesn’t sound much like a question, but Stiles answers anyway.

“All the time,” he says honestly. He has no trouble admitting it here because this is a dream, and dream-Derek always wants him, too, doesn’t turn him down for nice, pretty school teachers.

He presses his mouth to Derek’s neck, the cut of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Derek stops him with a hand on the back of Stiles’ head, pulling back so they can look at each other.

“Stiles…” Derek’s expression is- god, it’s almost heartbreaking. Stiles needs him to stop making that face, this is supposed to be a _happy_ dream. “This isn’t— This can’t—”

And, suddenly, Stiles understands. He backs off.

“It’s alright,” he says, even though it’s not really.

“We can’t,” Derek starts to say again, like even in a dream he still feels the need to take the blame and explain himself.

“It’s alright,” Stiles repeats. “It was only a matter of time before you figured out you don’t want this either, even in a dream.” 

Derek looks confused. “You think—” He starts laughing.

“What?” Stiles asks, a little miffed. “Why are you laughing at me, you pri-?”

Derek kisses him.

The catch of Derek’s lips against his is perfect, but what’s more is the way Derek tastes, the way he feels against Stiles, the way he smells, something sweet and rich.

Stiles licks at the seam of Derek’s mouth, and his breath catches, lips parting just enough that Stiles can slip his tongue in. At first, Derek’s mouth moves hesitantly against his, like he’s trying to hold himself back, and then something flips and he’s not anymore; he’s sliding their mouths together wetly, rucking up Stiles’ shirt so that he can get his hands on Stiles’ bare skin. He rolls them over so that Stiles is on top of him, his hands firm on Stiles’ hips, and when Stiles sucks Derek’s tongue into his mouth, he could swear he feels the tips of Derek’s claws starting to dig into his skin.

Stiles wasn’t expecting it to be, but fuck, that’s hot. Dream-Derek never wolfs out when they kiss.

Actually, dream-Derek never kisses him like this.

Or very well.

Dream-Derek kind of kisses like Scott—don’t ask, they were twelve and they didn’t know any girls—and, occasionally like Lydia or Heather and- Stiles is starting to see the pattern here.

It takes another second for Stiles to realize that this is not a dream.

He jerks away from Derek as if electrocuted. “Oh my god,” he breathes, horrified at what he’s done.

Derek’s eyes are slightly dazed when they meet Stiles’, his lips red and a little swollen.

“Stiles?” he asks, looking confused.

Stiles rolls off of him. “I am so sorry.” He grabs his jeans and Scott’s phone and runs away from Derek and his confused eyes.

-

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Hey Isaac is Scott with you_ ** **»**

 **Scott -** **«** **_yeah dude its me are u ok u just took off last night w/o your car_ ** **»**

 **Scott -** **«** **_and with my phone_ ** **:|** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_My bad bro. Can you come get me I’m at Derek’s_ ** **»**

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Stiles, just come out. We- we have to talk.”

 **Scott -** **«** **_yeah are you okay?_ ** **»**

Stiles hesitates before replying.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Fine just hurry okay_ ** **»**

“I’ll stand here all day if I have to,” Derek says. “You know I will.”

Stiles sighs and picks himself up off of Derek’s soft and very comforting bathmat to let him in.

They sit on the floor, backs against the tub, not making eye contact. Surprisingly enough, it’s Derek who speaks first.

“I never really had friends, not even before,” he says to his hands. “I did, but not like you. Even Laura, if she’d known what I did,” he stops, slowly shakes his head. “But you, you know everything I’m ashamed of, Paige, Kate, Erica… Even Boyd still blames me for that. He doesn’t say it, but I can see it sometimes. You know everything, and you still come around, even though I’m an asshole and I call you a moron all the time.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, tell him that he’s not an asshole, tell him he’s smart and funny and sarcastic—which, of course, is a quality that Stiles holds in the highest esteem—and that Stiles kind of _is_ a moron, so he can’t really fault Derek for calling him one.

“You’re my best friend, Stiles.”

It’s like the final nail in the coffin.

Stiles gets up and stands in the living room, staring blankly at the door until he gets a text from Isaac’s phone telling him that he and Scott are outside. He walks out of Derek’s apartment without a backward glance.

-

“What’s—” Scott starts.

“Not now, okay,” Stiles tells him. “Please,” he adds to lessen the harshness of his words.

“Did he do something to you?” Scott demands. Stiles hesitates, and Scott’s eyes turn bright red. “He did, didn’t he!”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Stiles protests, but Scott isn’t listening.

“I’m gonna fucking _kill_ him.” He fumbles with the latch on his seatbelt, claws making his movements clumsy. Isaac puts a hand on his arm.

“Scott,” he says firmly. Scott immediately stops, eyes fading from red to their normal brown. “I think we should just take Stiles home and give him some space, okay?”

“Stiles doesn’t want space, he wants me to stay with him forever,” Scott argues. He looks at Stiles with wide eyes. “Right, Stiles?”

“Actually, I think I could use a little alone time, buddy,” Stiles says apologetically.

“But—”

“That’s okay, Stiles,” Isaac cuts in. “Why don’t you keep Scott’s phone until you get a new one and you can call us if you need us.”

“Yeah, dude, you can keep my phone as long as you need it. Just, if Allison sends any pictures or videos, you might not want to open them.” And on that horrifying note, Scott tosses him his keys. “Do you wanna swing by Lydia’s and pick up your jeep?”

“Yeah, please.”

“Not a problem, buddy,” Scott says easily. Isaac catches Stiles’ eye in the rearview mirror and makes a face. Stiles manages to scrounge up a smile for him. As soon as Isaac looks away, though, he’s sinking into his seat.

Shit, this is a mess.

-

 **«**   ** _Hey, it’s Stiles_**.  ** _I’m sorry. I must’ve still been drunk. Let’s forget about it._ ** **»**

He sits on the edge of his bed, biting his nails, waiting for Derek to text him back. The reply comes nearly an hour later.

 **Derek -** **«** **_If that’s what you want_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Yeah. That’s what I want._ ** **»**

Stiles stuffs his phone into his pocket before he can see Derek’s response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SN: I really love 1984. It's one of my favorite books.
> 
> So in case you didn't know, this fic has received honorable mention on a [thing](http://eeames.tumblr.com/post/69438422595/1-two-bros-in-the-know-2-historically). The artwork is sooo cute ｡◕‿◕｡  
> eeames, darling, I don't know you, but I love you (seems that I'm always thinking of you!)  
> (see what you've done, you've got me singing to you) 
> 
> Captains Log Oct. 27th 1:33P.M. I am drunk. I am drunk and therefore none of the replies I made on your guyses comments should be held against me
> 
> Captain's Log Dec. 23rd 2:07 A.M. I don't know what just happened, but I was looking up a word in the dictionary on my kindle and all I see is "ass bandit _n._ VULGAR SLANG (also ass burglar)" this is the best thing that's ever happened to me
> 
> Captain's Log Dec. 24th 2:25 A.M. Someone messaged me on tumblr ~~complaining~~ gently reminding me that I needed to update and they were like, _"blurred lines it should have said blurred LIES"_ and I laughed for twenty minutes straight who are you and why are we not friends


	6. You are something I should do without (but I won't)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter, but believe me when I say it could've been a thousand times worse. I'm sorry for the five month absence, it (mostly) had a lot to do with my laptop being a bitch. Uhm, and for not responding to comments. I'll try to do that before I crash and holy god I just realized I have to be up in two hours, awesome  
>   
> I'm sure by now some of you have noticed that the chapter count has gone up; I was advised by some very brilliant people to break up the Grand Final Chapter into smaller bites because I wasn’t anywhere close to finished and I had about 20k written. SO yeah. I’m really sorry about the length. This was only meant to be like 20k _total_ but that’s probably not happening  
>     
> Chapter title taken from 'Under the Table' by Banks

Derek calls him.

And calls.

Stiles doesn’t answer. And eventually Derek stops.

—

John knocks lightly on the door. “‘Morning, son.”

He shuffles around a moment, waiting for Stiles to acknowledge his presence. He doesn’t; probably because he’s too busy moping over something that is undoubtedly Derek Hale-related to offer a simple “Good morning” to the man that has raised and loved him these past sixteen years.

John sighs and rests his forehead on the doorframe.

“Going out today, kiddo?” he calls, false-casual.

Silence.

Guess not.

The sheriff scrubs a tired hand over his face and wonders why he’s even surprised. Stiles hasn’t left the house in days. John would ask had happened; it’s just… he’s not really sure he wants to know? Especially if it _is_ Derek Hale-related. 

Derek Hale who is nine years, four months older than his underage son.

Yeah, John hadn’t been too pleased when he’d found out that little tidbit. In fact, the exact thought he’d had the moment he’d happened across Hale’s file and caught a glimpse of his age was, _dammit, Stiles, I’m a_ cop.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Derek because, unfortunately, he does. It has nothing to do with Derek and his being a werewolf and all the danger that comes with that; John had made his peace with the existence of the supernatural a while ago, that’s not the problem. The problem is that Derek twenty-five and it’s _illegal_. Or it would be if anything was happening. Which it isn’t.

John can feel his blood pressure starting to rise and takes a deep, calming breath and forces himself think of anything but a full-grown werewolf hypothetically deflowering his only child. It mostly works.

“Stiles.”

“Stiles, I know you can hear me.”

“Stiles, goddammit, would you just—”

The door is yanked open. Stiles is wearing the same sweats and t-shirt he’s been in for the last three days and looks like he hasn’t slept in about as long.

He puts on something that John thinks might? be an attempt at a smile, but just comes off…sad as hell.

“Hi, Dad. Yes, I did hear you, beating on my door at,” he glances over his shoulder, “seven o’clock in the morning, Jesus, really?” and then without waiting for a response, “Well, this was nice, let’s do it again sometime.” The door swings shut just as quickly as it had opened and the sheriff is left standing there, listening to the locks turn, his mouth still open around the words he hadn’t managed to get out before their one-sided conversation came to a very abrupt end.

“Uh…son?”

Nothing.

“I’ll see you when I get off then, I guess,” he says disappointedly. Stiles makes a sound of assent, barely audible through the door between them, and the sheriff sighs one last time.

“I’ll be home around six, kid.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, and John goes to work.

-

**John - « _Make sure he stays out of trouble, alright?_ » **

**Scott - « _aye aye captain_ » **

**John - « _Good man._ »**

Scott sighs and drags himself out of bed, careful not to wake Isaac—they’d had a late night with Allison. He shoves his feet into the closest pair of sweats, gives Isaac a kiss on the cheek and starts heading over to Stiles’.

It takes him ten minutes to get there by bike, which is awful, but not quite as awful as it would be if it were hot out. It’s a good thing Stiles decided to have his little meltdown in the middle of winter.

He crawls through the window and says, “What’s up, _bu_ -ddy,” like that dude from Encino Man to make him laugh because it usually does.

Stiles doesn’t so much as crack a smile, just blinks at him at normal intervals like he doesn’t understand why Scott’s even there.

Scott tries not to be offended.

He crawls into bed besides Stiles. “So we’re still on this, huh,” he says conversationally, bumping their shoulders together.

Stiles continues blinking at him in that same dick-ish manner, and Scott continues regretting his decision to be a good friend and hang out here, in the gloomy lair of Count Dick-ula, when he could be at home, sleeping in or fucking around with Isaac.

Because, seriously; Stiles is being _such_ a dick.

Case in point: his only response to Scott’s friendly inquiry is to pointedly turn onto his side.

And now Scott really is offended. But Scott is gonna let it go, kinda has to, because it’s Stiles _._

Stiles, his sister from another mister, the peanut butter to his ladies, the one constant in his life—besides his mom and maybe the sheriff. Stiles has stuck with him through the good times and the bad; hell, Stiles was his first kiss _(which no one will ever know ever),_ and even when Scott’s life turned into a freaking horror show, Stiles was right there with him. Sure he was there cracking his sarcastic, ill-timed jokes and almost always nearly getting them killed, but at least he was _there._ Even though they both knew that if Stiles had wanted to bail, he would’ve been well within his right to.

But he never tried, not once, and Scott is grateful for that because being targeted by a series of increasingly dangerous supernatural creatures for being BFFs with a “True Alpha” wasn’t exactly under the Terms & Conditions clause of their friendship contract.

Plus Stiles is awesome and never judges him (when it counts) or complains when Scott comes to him with a problem (which is often) and that’s including all of the mundane teenage emotional shit he puts up with on Scott’s behalf.

Like when he was going through his ‘I’m not a werewolf, Stiles! ...Alright, I _might_ be a werewolf, sorry for flipping out on you or whatever’ phase.

And the ‘it doesn’t matter that Allison’s from a family of werewolf hunters and I’m a werewolf, and what the hell do you mean, “it’s never gonna work,” Stiles? _Of course_ it’s gonna work, we’re in _love’_ phase which had, inevitably, led to a lot of pain and tears. And also, death.

So much death.

Oh, and then there was that time he’d made out with Lydia, which wasn’t so much a phase as it was a _terrible_ fucking idea.

So yeah, in light of all those things—and a frighteningly long list of others that Scott is not going to get into right now for personal reasons—he can let Stiles being a bit of a dick at the moment go. Because that’s what brothers do. (Unless they’re the Cain and Abel kind of brothers. Then they murder each other).

He pulls an old comic book off of Stiles’ bookshelf and settles in for another long day. Lucky for him, he can see pretty well in the dark, because last time he’d attempted to turn on a light in Stiles’ room, Stiles had hissed and junk-punched him. Scott hasn’t been stupid enough to try again since.

“Would you mind not breathing so loudly,” Stiles says irritably.

Scott briefly considers making them Cain and Abel-type brothers, and opts against it. Stiles’ dad is a sheriff, that would just be dumb.

“Sorry,” he mutters, taking the high road and making an effort to quiet his—already _pretty_ fucking quiet—breaths.

The things he does for love.

—

Despite what his father says—yeah, he’s heard his dad and Scott whispering behind his back, the fucking traitors—Stiles is not moping. He’s not.

So what if the “evidence suggests otherwise.”

So what if he’s “being a grumpy asshole.”

So what if he hasn’t taken a shower in a few days and he should “really consider doing that.”

Stiles remembers a point after Allison broke up with him the third or fourth time where Scott didn’t take a shower for, like, two weeks straight, alright; Stiles hasn’t even gone half as long as that.

And Scott’s over here judging him. Scott doesn’t have any _room_ to judge him. 

At least he’s not being a creeper and sleeping on Derek’s rooftop like some people he knows— _Scott_.

And at least he’s leaving Derek alone. Isn’t calling and leaving him a bunch of uncomfortable voicemails about how he’s sorry he screwed things up and telling him they can still be friends; as long as Derek can get past the fact that Stiles is kind of completely gone on him. That has to count for something, right?

—

Another day of brooding and bitchiness passes before Scott decides to implement a different approach to the matter at hand.

“Hey, buddy,” he says casually. “I’m fucking starving. We should go get some of those burgers you’re always telling me I need to try.”

Stiles’ expression goes slack, stomach grumbling audibly.

And just like that, Scott knows he’s won.

He throws some clean clothes at Stiles and directs him to the bathroom where he can take a (desperately needed) shower and shoots Isaac a text, letting him know that progress has finally been made.

-

Stiles doesn’t notice Boyd’s car parked in front of this dive burger joint he speaks so highly of, but Scott does and he’s pretty sure he knows what it means. He enters the diner a step ahead of Stiles, hackles up.

 _“Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear,”_ Boyd mutters, sounding amused. Scott hones in on his voice, follows it to a cozy little corner booth, where his suspicions are—regrettably—confirmed.

Scott makes sure to smile at Boyd before he starts glaring at Derek, that way there’s no confusion over who he’s trying to murder with his eyes. Derek’s own glare is weak in comparison and ruined by the fact that he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of Stiles long enough to actually commit to it.

Scott growls.

Stiles nudges him in the ribs, having noticed his sudden tension. “What’s up, buddy?” He hasn’t seen Derek yet. Good.

“Nothing, man,” Scott assures him, quickly steering him towards the counter. “You gonna order for us?”

Stiles shrugs. “Sure, what d’you want?”

“Four of whatever you’re getting,” Scott answers with a tight grin and a clap on the back.

Stiles snorts and turns to the woman at the counter. “Hi, can I get, uh—”

While Stiles is distracted, ordering for them, Scott looks back over at Derek and flashes his eyes in warning, muttering, “Come near him and I’ll punch you in the throat,” under his breath, because this is the first time Stiles has been out of the house in days and Scott will be damned if _this_ dumbass is the reason he has to go back to spending his Winter Break in that horrible, dark room.

 _“Wasn’t planning on it,”_ Derek mutters back. Scott sees Boyd giving Derek a confused look, and then glance over towards Scott and Stiles. Understanding fills his expression, and then something close to pity.

Derek looks away.

“Hey, bro,” Scott says to Stiles, watching Derek’s eyes turn back towards them in his peripheral. “Wanna go eat this in the park?”

“It’s too bright out,” Stiles complains.

“Stiles,” Scott says judgmentally. “It is cloudy as fuck right now.”

 _“You’re_ cloudy as fuck right now,” Stiles mumbles, and for one sinking moment, Scott thinks Stiles is gonna fight him on this, but he grabs their food and gives a nod and a small smile of thanks to the woman at the counter, and lets Scott drag him to the exit.

Scott can feel Derek watching them—or more specifically, Stiles—as they leave, and thanks his occasionally lucky stars that Stiles hadn’t noticed he was there.

-

They eat their food in companionable silence, sitting under the shade of a large tree despite the admittedly (shut up, Scott) overcast sky, and people watch.

Stiles is so intent on this one kid being half-led, half-dragged across the park by his mother—he will never understand why some people believe that putting their children on a leash is an okay thing to do—that he almost misses Scott saying, “So are you gonna tell me what happened now?”

Stiles plays with a blade of grass and shrugs.

“C’mon, dude. I think I’ve waited long enough,” Scott whines. He kicks out his leg to knock Stiles’ foot with his own and sticks his lower lip out, pouting. “Longer than you would have.”

Stiles snorts, because yeah, that’s accurate. He would’ve picked and picked and picked at it until Scott caved—like he always did—if the roles had been reversed.

He hunches over, puts his elbows on his folded knees. He doesn’t want to talk, but at the same time he feels like owes this to Scott, Scott who always shares everything with him, even the things he does not want to know ever. Like how amazing Isaac’s dick is.

Just. Why?

Stiles sighs. “So, after I left Lydia’s, I kinda got lost,” he says finally, trying not to fidget under Scott’s expectant gaze. “I drunk dialed Derek. He picked me up and put me to bed.”

Scott continues staring at him, waiting.

_“And?”_

_“And_ I guess I had a little too much of that liquid courage and I asked him to stay with me. And…” he feels his face screwing up as he gets the next words out, “we kinda made out a little?”

Scott blinks. Clearly, whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this.

“Then why are we mad at him?” he asks. “This is a good thing, right?”

Stiles gives the ground a tight smile. Good old Scott.

“Right?” Scott repeats, drawing him out of his own head. “Stiles?”

Stiles feels shame setting in and decides to do it quickly, like tearing off a particularly stubborn band-aid.

“Maybe it would’ve been,” Stiles sighs, “if he wasn’t already seeing someone.”

There’s a shocked silence and then, “What? Who? I’m gonna _kill_ that dickbag.”

“It’s not his fault, alright? I was the one—”

 _“Why_ are you trying to cover for him,” Scott snarls.

“Because I kissed him, okay? He made it clear that he wasn’t interested in me that way and I still—” he trails off, shaking his head.

Scott’s anger dims. He eyes Stiles warily, like he doesn’t want to be here, pleading Derek’s case, but he’s prepared to do it anyway if it keeps that look off of Stiles’s face. “He kissed you back, though, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, after I basically attacked him,” Stiles mutters, “It was probably instinctual or, like, pity.”

Scott hesitates. “I don't think-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Stiles cuts in, not wanting any more false hope. “We talked and we agreed it was a mistake. It’s not going to happen again.”

Scott raises his eyebrows skeptically but doesn’t comment. “You still haven’t told me who he’s seeing yet,” he notices. 

Stiles grinds his teeth together. Like ripping off a band-aid, he tells himself. A band-aid that has been gorilla-glued and then stapled down and wrapped with duct tape as an extra precautionary measure.

“It’s Ms. Blake.”

Scott doesn’t get it. He glances around, “Where? I don’t see her, man.” He turns back to Stiles and Stiles just stares at him, waiting for comprehension to set in.

It takes a while.

Scott’s mouth falls open. “No.”

Stiles grimaces. “Yeah.”

_“No.”_

“Yeah.”

_“Really?”_

“Yeah.”

Scott throws himself back dramatically, limbs sprawled. “What the fuck, man?” he whines. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

Stiles snorts at the almost betrayed-looking expression on Scott’s face. But to himself, he thinks that it kind of does make sense. Beautiful girl ending up with the beautiful guy; bunny teeth ending up with bunny teeth, it’s logical.

If someone saw Derek and Blake walking down the street, they’d probably think, _wow, what a lovely couple,_ as opposed to, _what the fuck is_ that _guy doing with_ that, which is exactly how it would be if anyone saw Derek with Stiles.

Nothing about them makes sense.

Stiles tells himself this over and over again, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting.

-

They’re about a mile away from Stiles’ when Scott brakes in the middle of the road.

“So _that’s_ why you were talking about Blake the other night!” He has that nerdy _a-ha!_ thing going on, pointed finger and all, and he looks half proud of himself for drawing this conclusion all by his lonesome.

“Uh, yeah, why’d you think I brought her up?” Stiles asks, eyebrows high. “And can we maybe continue driving because I’m pretty sure I’d rather not be murdered by your mother for getting rear-ended in her car.”

They both snicker a little at the phrasing and Scott puts the car in gear and keeps on driving. “Nah, I don’t know, man, I thought you were pissed ‘cause she gave us homework over break or something.”

Stiles snorts and stares out the window. Yeah, he wishes that was it.

-

His dad seems surprised when he comes home and finds dinner on the stove and Stiles showered, dressed and watching a movie with Scott and Isaac, who’d gotten there a little while before—he’d been dropped off by Melissa on her way to work and, upon arrival, had given Stiles a pat on the back and declared that he was happy Stiles had, quote unquote, ‘finally decided to stop being such a sadsack.’ Inspirational words, as always, Isaac.

John hovers in the doorway, checking Stiles over for any obvious signs of distress, trying not to be obvious about it. When he comes up with nothing, he smiles, relieved, and tips his head at them in greeting as he hangs up his jacket. “Boys.”

“Hey, Dad. How was work?”

“Work was work,” John jokes. “Thanks for making dinner, kid. Smells good.”

Stiles had made his dad’s favorite meal, lasagna and garlic bread and no salad, as a kind of ‘thanks for putting up with me.’ He’d even made real lasagna, not the bland, low-in-sodium vegetable one his father abhors.

“No problem, Pop,” Stiles says.

John retreats to his office with a gleeful expression, plate piled high.

“‘No problem, Pop,’” Isaac mimics in a high pitched voice, batting his eyelashes and generally making Stiles sound dumber than he actually is.

So Stiles is being a bit of a kiss ass. That doesn’t mean Isaac has to be a dick and call him out on it.

Stiles gives him a seemingly friendly smile. “Keep it up, Isaac. I have a jar full of wolfsbane and unfettered access to your home.”

Isaac’s teasing grin doesn’t falter. “You won’t hurt me.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Stiles says easily enough. Isaac smirks and goes back to shoveling down his food. If Stiles was a better person, he’d leave it at that.

“Y’know, Scott tells me you’re a pretty heavy sleeper,” Stiles starts again casually.

Isaac’s brow furrows in confusion.

“I wonder how long it would take for your hair to grow back,” Stiles muses.

“You wouldn’t.” He sounds uncertain, though.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees.

Isaac’s hands go to his hair worriedly and Scott hides his face, shoulders shaking as he tries not to laugh.

“Don’t worry, buddy, I’m sure Scott and Allison will still find you attractive when you’re bald,” Stiles tells him.

Isaac sputters indignantly and Scott leans into his side, giving in and laughing at his expression. “Dude, he’s joking.”

“Mostly,” Stiles agrees good-naturedly. “If only because the thought of your bald head is already giving me nightmares.”

Isaac scowls and flips them both the bird and stalks off to kitchen, probably for thirds, and Stiles probably shouldn’t, but he runs after him and jumps on his back, crooning, “Aww, buddy, don’t be mad,” and just barely manages to place a sloppy, wet kiss on his cheek before Isaac tosses his ass on the floor in disgust.

And Stiles carries himself back to the couch where he and Scott laugh and laugh and laugh until the sheriff pokes his head out of his office and yells at them to pipe down, he doesn’t want his deputies having to make a house call.

Isaac sits in the armchair in the corner, scowling over at them. He only stops when Scott finally gets up and sets himself down in his lap, rubs his thumb over the spot Stiles had laid one on him and plants a new kiss over it.

Stiles rolls his eyes and pretends he doesn’t want that for himself. But not with Scott because ew, cooties.

-

Sometime during the fourth or fifth shitty movie of their Shitty Movie Marathon—this one’s about psychic vampires from space, because Stiles doesn’t already have enough shit to keep him up at night _without_ having to worry about what horrors lie in wait in the final frontier—his phone lights up, Derek’s name flashing across the screen insistently.

Stiles stares at it, frowning, until it stops. Another notification pops up, reminding him of his eight unheard voicemails. Scott pats his leg just as he clears the screen.

“It’s gonna work out, buddy,” Scott says, “I can feel it.”

Stiles snorts in acknowledgment of this baseless sentiment and turns back to the movie.

—

Stiles can honestly say, without exaggeration, that leaving the house was one of the biggest mistakes he’d ever made in his life.

The last outing hadn’t been entirely bad—besides the whole finally having to talk to Scott about what had happened with Derek portion of the day—so he’d figured, what the hell, right. Why not take some shit off his dad’s plate and do the grocery shopping? Also, he was starving and they were basically out of food.

Anyway: Stupidest. Fucking. Idea.

He barely makes it two steps into the bread section before he comes to a stuttering halt. Halfway down the aisle, an all too familiar stubbly-faced man is glaring down at two similarly packaged loaves of sandwich bread like they’re the most infuriating things on the planet and Stiles _can’t breathe._

He really must be slipping if he hadn’t even noticed Derek’s ostentatious as fuck car in the parking lot.

Once his brain reboots and he regains control over his motor skills, Stiles abandons his cart and mentally maps out the best route to the exit. Fuck groceries. He and his dad don’t need food. Love will keep them alive.

He spins around quickly, trying to make a graceful(-ish) exit, but _apparently_ some old lady has just now decided to block the row with her cart. She fucking parked it sideways and everything. Who _does_ that.

“Yeah, why not, right,” Stiles says maturely, “Let’s just block the entire aisle. It’s not like _anyone else_ is tryna shop here.”

The look the woman gives him is what Stiles is assuming is the old person’s equivalent of, _what, bitch?_ and Stiles glares back. “Yeah, that was directed towards you, Carol. It’s called ‘common courtesy,’ maybe you’ve heard of it.”

The woman shoots him another dirty look and wheels her cart away.

He hears someone snort behind him. “Really, Stiles. Are we picking fights with the elderly now?”

Without having made a cognizant decision to do so, Stiles spins on the spot.

He wasn’t deluded enough to think he’s anywhere near prepared for this meeting, which is why he’d tried to _run away,_ but at night when he was imagining what would happen in the event that he ever did bump into Derek—a scenario that was likely, given that they lived in a small ass town—he never thought he’d just…

Freeze.

The slight smirk on Derek’s face slips.

Stiles clears his throat, awkwardly scratching at his jaw. “Uh, hey. How’s it going?”

“It’s- good?” Derek says uncertainly. “Are you alright? You look—” He hesitates and Stiles fills in the blanks for himself. Horrible, like shit, _like a moron_ (top choice).

“Tired,” is what Derek ends up choosing.

“Oh.” Stiles’ attempt at laughter falls flat. “Yeah, been pulling all-nighters, you know how it is.” Which is kind of true. He hasn’t been getting much sleep anyway.

“More drunken nail parties with your friends?” Derek jokes, mouth curving.

Banter is good. Banter, Stiles can do.

“No more drunken nail parties for this guy,” he says, holding his hands up and wiggling his polish-free fingers. “I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Derek says seriously. “Besides, I don’t think purple is really your color.”

Stiles scoffs and it sounds almost normal. “Dude, _every_ color is my color. Especially purple.” He looks fucking good in purple.

A strange look passes over Derek’s face, like he’s remembering something, “I think I prefer black.”

Stiles snorts, unsurprised by this statement. “You would. Black: the color of your soul.”

“I have no soul,” Derek says, deadpan.

“Can’t argue with you there, buddy.” Derek scowls a little and Stiles finds the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. God, he’d missed Derek. Why is he avoiding him again?

A woman Stiles had mistaken for just another shopper stops near Derek and places a proprietary hand on his arm.

“Hey, Der, what kind of detergent did you— Stiles! I didn’t see you there,” Ms. Blake says, sounding pleasantly surprised.

Oh. Right. That’s why.

Stiles’ smile disappears. Well, that explains why he didn’t see the Camaro. Maybe he should start keeping an eye out for _her_ car instead.

“Hi,” Stiles returns flatly. He glances over at Derek. He’s back to staring at his bread, except now instead of irritated, he just looks guilty.

Blake doesn’t seem to notice the tone. “Derek was saying that he needed to do some laundry, so I thought I’d offer my services,” she says with a smile.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you did,” Stiles mutters.

 _“Stiles,”_ Derek hisses.

“What?” Ms. Blake asks, obviously having missed the jab.

Stiles doesn’t answer, and Derek steps in. “It’s nothing.”

Stiles is suddenly reminded of the last time he’d heard Derek use those words.

_“What was that all about?”_

_“Nothing. It’s nothing.”_

Stiles has had his fair share of punches to the gut, and the sensation he is currently experiencing feels a lot like that.

Ms. Blake tries to engage him in conversation, asks him about his break and how Scott and his dad are doing, but backs off when Stiles sticks to clipped, one word replies. (“Fine.” “Good.” “Great.”)

She stands between them, Derek still staring at his bread and Stiles staring off to the side, looking awkward.

“Oh, yeah. So what kind of laundry detergent did you want me to grab for you?” Blake directs to Derek.

“He uses Tide,” Stiles says before he can answer. “Y’know, orange bottle, blue label.”

Her eyes widen slightly and Derek’s ears flush. “Okay…?” She looks kind of baffled as to why Stiles should know this, but doesn’t ask. “I’ll be back.” She squeezes Derek’s arm and hurries off with Stiles staring after her.

By the time he looks back over, Derek has set his bread down and is now diligently studying the ground.

“So things are looking pretty serious for you two, huh, _Der,”_ Stiles smirks. “I mean, I had to jump through all kinds of hoops to get you to wash at my house: join a pack of wolves, save your life a couple times, feed you. And all she had to do was bat her eyelashes?” He laughs. “I feel cheated somehow.”

Derek winces. “Stiles, don’t—” be like that.

Stiles turns away before he can finish. He doesn’t think he can handle the look on Derek’s face right now. Like he’s sorry, like Stiles is something that needs his _pity_. Fuck, he probably thinks Stiles is gagging for it, the way he jumped him last time. Which, okay, totally accurate, but he doesn’t appreciate Derek _thinking_ that about him. He just—

He needs to get out of here.

Derek grabs his arm. “Wait, where are you—”

Stiles shrugs him off. “I’ll see you around, man. Have fun with _Jenny,”_ because he’s _that_ kind of cliché. Here it is Derek, his supposed best friend, is finally in a stable, healthy relationship, and Stiles can’t even pretend to be happy for him.

He snorts at his own pathetic behavior and ignores the burning in his eyes, starts moving in the opposite direction, away from stupid Derek and his stupid face.

“Look, don’t—”

Stiles doesn’t stop, isn’t planning on stopping, but Derek catches his wrist and spins him back around, crowds him until his back hits the shelves. He leans in, close enough that his breath is hitting Stiles’ mouth and Stiles’ heart is acting weird, turning inside out in his chest or something and beating erratically.

Derek backs off a little, eventually, but only because someone passing by gives them a strange look. He doesn’t let go of Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles stares down at Derek’s fingers, notices for the first time the length and the breadth of them, _really_ notices. Thinks about how strong they feel, and how Derek probably isn’t even holding on that tightly, not half as tightly as he could be. Not half as tightly as Stiles wants him to be.

“Stiles, you know that I—” He jerks his gaze away from Derek’s hands, stares at some point over his shoulder, not wanting to meet his eyes. Derek ducks down, tries to force him to, but as they both know, Stiles is stubborn when he wants to be.

And right now, he wants to be.

“Dammit, Stiles, would you just _look_ at me?”

“Why,” Stiles asks flatly.

“Why do you have to make everything so _difficult,”_ Derek asks angrily.

Stiles resorts to sarcasm. His first and last line of defense. “Uhm, because I’m me?”

Derek blinks like the response had caught him off guard. He snorts.

“Yeah, that’s probably it.”

He sounds warm and fond and decidedly un-Derek-like.

And Stiles gives in.

Derek is looking straight at him, expression more guarded than it had been a minute ago.

“I haven’t seen you in days. You didn’t return any of my calls.”

Stiles grimaces. “I thought it’d be best. After. Yeah.”

Derek’s ears turn a distracting shade of pink. “About that. We should ta—”

“Let’s not,” Stiles says quickly, while simultaneously trying to get over the fact that _Derek_ is the one that keeps on suggesting they talk. Derek who usually acts as if he’d rather pull out his own teeth than express anything _close_ to resembling emotions.

Derek frowns, but doesn’t push. “Fine. Will you stop avoiding me?”

Stiles hesitates. “I don’t know if I should.”

Derek’s eyes bore into his, unreadable. “Why?”

Stiles just gives him a look, because they both know why.

They need space. _Stiles_ needs space so that he can at least attempt to get over Derek. He doesn’t need Derek giving him pity-kisses and making Stiles feel even worse than he already does about wanting his teacher’s boyfriend’s nuts.

Derek’s expression becomes less stiff at whatever he sees in Stiles’. “Okay,” he relents. “But I wish you would.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, confused.

“When you’re not around—” Derek stops and gives a tiny shake of the head, like he’s trying to clear it. “It feels weird now.” He sounds so frustrated by this, by _feeling_ something for Stiles’ absence.

Which makes _absolutely_ _no sense_ , but still Stiles finds himself smiling.

Derek gives Stiles a rueful smile in return. “Never thought I’d say this, but I kinda miss you always being at my house uninvited.”

Stiles snorts, his thumb unconsciously running along the underside of Derek’s wrist. “Yeah, I kinda miss you, too, buddy.”

Derek lets out a quiet laugh. He’s looking at their hands, expression somehow soft and on edge at the same time. 

He takes a sharp breath, and Stiles knows that he’s about to say something important. 

“Stiles, I—”

And then Blake turns the corner, breaking the moment, and Stiles is gently extracting his wrist from Derek’s grip.

Stiles’ tone is polite, unfamiliar when he says, “You should get back to your girlfriend.” His voice cracks on that last word.

He coughs to cover it up, laughingly mumbles something about probably getting sick, but Derek looks pained like he sees through it. 

“Wait—”

Stiles hesitates, and says, “I’ll see you around, dude. I’ve gotta get some groceries. You know how I get when I’m hungry.” He wiggles his eyebrows and turns away, reaching for the handle on his abandoned cart. He’s just proud of himself for keeping his composure this long, but then Derek has to go and fuck it all up, as usual.

“I still think about that kiss,” Derek says hoarsely, barely loud enough to hear. “I think about it all the goddamn time.”

Stiles decides that he and his father can go without groceries after all.

—

Stiles is on the floor, leaning against the fridge, when John gets home from work.

His dad drops his keys and rushes over.

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” he asks, panicked. “Are you hurt? Was it werewolves? Vampires? Witches? Ah, hell, don’t tell me it was that damn half-demon with OCD again.”

Stiles shakes his head and clutches John’s shoulders. “I’ve failed you, Father. There are no groceries. I thought that love would keep us alive, but I was wrong.” He stares up at his dad with large, haunted eyes. “I was _wrong.”_

The sheriff visibly reigns in his rage. “You mean to say you nearly gave me a heart attack because you’re _hungry?”_

“I’m not hungry; I’m starving,” Stiles corrects, dropping the histrionics.

John smacks him on the back of the head and gets to his feet.

Stiles cradles his head protectively, “Da- _ad_ , feed meeee.”

John huffs and stares down at his son judgmentally. After a minute, he sighs and holds a hand out to help him off the ground. “Chinese?” Stiles breaks into a wide smile and throws his arms around John’s neck.

John rolls his eyes, but accepts his child’s affection, grateful that he seems to have snapped out of his Hale-induced depression, even if he does seem a little more…manic than usual.

“Don’t forget to order me wontons, okay?” Stiles calls, already halfway up the stairs.

“And where are you going?”

Stiles teeters on the top step. “Uhm… I need a shower.” Code for ‘stand under the water and cry.’ “Yeah. Be down in ten!”

John shakes his head and pulls out the phonebook.

-

A series of messages are waiting for Stiles when he gets out of the shower.

**Scott - « _ru home???_ » **

**Scott- « _super bored. Isaacs hanging out w Boyd n Al is w Lyd_ » **

**Scott - « _Stiles_ » **

**Scott - « _Stiiiiiles_ » **

**Scott - « _Stiiiiilllleeess_ » **

**Scott - « _CONTESTAME PENDEJO_ »**

Whoa. Dude must be serious if he’s pulling out the Spanish.

**Stiles - « _My bad homie lol. I was taking a shower_ »**

**Stiles - « _You coming over? Dad’s making his famous call to the Chinese place_ » **

**Scott - « _f yeah man! b there in a few_ »**

Stiles sends him a picture of a sombrero with a caption that says, ‘Ole,’ in return.

So Scott comes over and they eat Chinese food and watch a shitty horror flick with John and Stiles pretends that he’s watching instead of thinking about stupid, complicated Derek.

—

There’s a gap in communication between Scott and himself—something Stiles is sure has everything to do with Chris taking a sudden trip out of town with Deaton. Then after two days of _nothing_ , Scott comes tumbling in through his window.

“Hey buddy can me and Isaac stay at your place for a few days okay cool thanks,” he says all in one breath. Isaac falls through the window a half-second later, gives Stiles a semi-awkward smile and wave, and staggers to his feet.

“What the hell happened?” Stiles demands as Isaac picks Scott off the ground and carries him to the desk chair, then limps off to the bathroom, no doubt going to retrieve the werewolf-approved first aid kit Stiles had thrown together after the thing with the troll.

“Nothing, really,” Scott says, wincing as he rolls up his pant leg to reveal a nasty looking wound. “Chris kinda caught us with Allison.”

“He took it pretty well, considering,” Isaac says as he hobbles over to Scott and kneels down beside him.

“Yeah, we were expecting him to yell or something, but all he did was stand there for a minute and leave.” Scott shrugs, like _clearly_ this is no big.

“And then he came back,” Isaac says brightly. “With a gun.”

“Oh my god and you came _here?”_ Stiles rushes to the window and closes his curtains, peeking out surreptitiously.

Scott waves him off. “This was just a teeny tiny precaution,” he says. “It’s not like he’s actually gonna kill us. Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles gapes at the sheer stupidity of that statement. _“‘Don’t worry about—’_ He _shot_ you!” he sputters. “You were literally _shot.”_ He points to the gaping hole in Scott’s leg which is Exhibit fucking A in the People vs. the Idiocy of Scott McCall.

It’s Isaac who waves him off this time. “It’s not a big deal.”

Stiles stares at Isaac, mouth working, but no sound coming out. Scott he can understand; Scott is naïveté and unicorns and rainbows 24-hours a day! But Isaac, Isaac should _know_ better.

Isaac doesn’t appear to notice the disappointed look Stiles is aiming at him. He tears a bandage off and winds it around Scott’s leg. It’s not really necessary, seeing as it’ll heal in a few minutes, but Stiles appreciates it all the same. Less blood for him to clean later.

Unless they’re wolfsbane bullets. Then they won’t heal at all and the blood will start coming out black.

And, y’know, Scott’ll probably die, but the real issue here is how Stiles is gonna get all that blood out of his carpet.

Stiles ducks down and shoves more bandages at Isaac, making a circular motion with his index finger, the widely acknowledged hand-gesture for _wrap that shit up._

Scott peels his blood-spattered shirt off with a wince and peers down, assessing the damage.

“Y’know, I don’t think he was trying too hard to kill us,” he announces. “I mean, look at this,” he gestures to the grazes right below his ribs. “Argent’s a perfect shot.”

“Actually, I think that might’ve been because he was so pissed off his hands were shaking,” Isaac says because he’s just a fucking ray of sunshine, isn’t he.

Stiles snorts to himself and wonders how that works, Scott and Isaac. They’re polar opposites. Isaac is cynicism and sarcasm and Scott, like Stiles said, is unicorns and rainbows. Maybe it’s Allison. Maybe she balances them out, with her sharp edges and her soft center. Who fucking knows. Look at what Stiles is into: a burly werewolf with a temper and trust issues.

“Okay, you’re good, my turn,” Isaac says, smacking Scott on the thigh and standing.

And then he turns around and starts pulling down his pants.

Stiles throws his hands up and yells, “Ahh! No, my eyes!”

“What? What’s wrong?” Isaac asks, looking over his shoulder in confusion.

“Why are you taking off your pants!” Stiles yells.

“Oh, uh, I uh—” Isaac looks to Scott for help. Stiles looks to Scott for help, too.

“Argent got him in the ass,” Scott says.

Stiles purses his lips, taking that in.

“Which Argent?” he can’t help but ask, and after Scott gets it, they both dissolve into laughter.

Isaac turns red and glares while Scott and Stiles giggle like a couple of dummies.

-

So, apparently, there _are_ worse things than his daughter dating a werewolf, and that is his daughter dating _two_ werewolves.

Simultaneously.

At the same time.

 _Together_. 

Chris shudders as images flood his mind, unbidden. _So. Much. Togetherness._

Allison rubs his back soothingly. “C’mon, Dad, maybe you should go lie down.”

“Maybe _you_ should lie down!” Chris yells back nonsensically. “Or not! Maybe you should join a convent!” He nods his head violently. “Yeah! Yeah! I’m gonna look up a fucking nunnery right now and tell them to pick you up _immediately.”_

“And what are you gonna tell them,” Allison says sarcastically. “That you caught me having sex with my werewolf boyfriends?”

Chris lets out a wounded sound at that. “Werewolves. Werewolves have defiled my little girl.”

Allison rolls her eyes and leads him to the sofa. “I think it’s safe to say that it was consensual defiling all-around.”

Chris moans, covering his ears. “NOooo.”

-

“Well, they’re not wolfsbane,” Scott says cheerfully as the _bullet holes that are riddling his body_ start knitting themselves back together. He grins up at Isaac. “I think it’s safe to say that Chris may eventually come around to the idea of us being with Allison.”

Isaac grins back. “Outlook: hopeful.”

Stiles cradles his head in his hands. “Oh my god.”

All of his friends actually _are_ idiots. He will never argue this point with his father again.

—

Scott and Isaac lay low at his for a few days, and on the fourth, Argent seems to realize he has a life to get back to and stops parking in front of Stiles’ house to glare daggers at his window—as long as they’re not _actual_ daggers, right.

Stiles is especially happy about this because, as Scott and Isaac’s visit hadn’t exactly been planned, there’d been some clothes sharing, which had led to mixing of scents, which, in turn, had led to an uncomfortable amount of Stiles waking up being spooned by either Scott or Isaac, and memorably once by both Scott _and_ Isaac. It was not the type of sandwich Stiles had ever wanted to be involved in.

Scott still ends up coming over almost every day the week leading up to Christmas—mostly by his own choice, apparently he and Isaac have a lot of free time now that they are forbidden from seeing Allison “ever, ever, ever again, _ever,”—_ and Stiles works on getting over Derek and absolutely not picking apart what he’d said at the grocery store.

 

Absolutely.

(But seriously, what the hell did he mean by, “I still think about that kiss”? Did he mean that it haunted him, as in it gave him nightmares, that it put the fear of Jesus in him, what? Christ, he couldn’t have given Stiles just a _little_ more to go on?)

—

Like every Christmas for the last eight years, dinner is held at the McCalls.

 _Un_ like every other Christmas dinner, which has always just been Stiles, his dad, Scott and his mom, there are a few unexpected—though not entirely unexpected—guests. Isaac is joining them this year, of course, he does live there, and that’s all fine and dandy, but it doesn’t explain why Scott and Isaac are setting an extra _six_ place settings, nor does it explain why everyone keeps looking at him and smirking like he’s missing something obvious. Whatever, man. Stiles doesn’t care as long as no one touches his goddamn apple pie.

-

Sometime around four there’s a knock on the door, followed by said door opening without pause for reply and Her Majesty Lydia stomping in, looking irritated.

“Uh, hey, Lyds…” Stiles says, slightly confused. “What’re you do-holy hell what.” Stiles nearly drops the pie he’s carrying out of the kitchen on the ground when Jackson fucking Whittemore trudges in behind her, head bowed and pouting.

“What the fuck?” Stiles asks no one in particular.

“Good to see you, too, assface,” Jackson says drily, right before adding a sarcastic, “Not.” Clearly those eight or so months in London have done nothing for him by way of maturity. Lydia looks at him threateningly, and Jackson mumbles a quiet, almost sincere, “Sorry.” and goes back to pouting.

“Lydia. What. In the hell. Is _this,”_ Stiles stabs a finger in Jackson’s direction without looking at him, “doing here?”

“This is a _he,”_ Jackson growls, “and _I_ am here as Lydia’s plus one for the dinner thing.”

“…What dinner thing?”

“Oh,” Lydia says, feigning surprise, “Scott didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what, Lydia,” he asks through gritted, even though he’s starting to see where this is going and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“We’re having a _real_ Christmas dinner,” she says, sounding positively chipper. “The _whole family’s_ been invited.” Stiles feels something in the vicinity of his stomach twist unpleasantly.

The doorbell rings, and because apparently that means, _this is just a pleasantry, we are coming in now,_ Allison, Boyd and Chris let themselves in, hanging their coats and waving.

“Where are all of your _real_ families and why can’t you spend Christmas with _them_?” he asks Lydia in an unflatteringly shrill voice.

She gives him an amused look and leads him out of earshot (for the humans, anyway), says, “Careful, Stiles, someone might get the wrong impression,” while Allison lets out a squeal behind them and tackles Jackson into a hug—ugh, Stiles had forgotten they were friendly.

“Well, if the impression that you’re getting is that I want you to go away; you’d be _right,”_ he hisses back.

Lydia gives him another look, this one injured—but, like, _calculatedly_ —and Stiles is now 1000% certain she’s enjoying this.

Boyd and Jackson’s heads swivel towards the door in that creepy, synchronized werewolf way.

A jolt of trepidation hits Stiles in the chest and he wants nothing more than to leave, retreat to the kitchen where it’s warm and safe and smells like cookies. But before he can, the door opens for a third time and there’s Derek, the source of all of Stiles’ pain and suffering, the face (ass) that haunts his dreams. And he’s wearing a sweater—a fucking _sweater_ , with, like, actual colors and stuff—looking all beautiful and windswept, cheeks pink from the cold and eyes fixed on Stiles.

Stiles opens his mouth to possibly say “Hi” or “Merry Christmas” or something vaguely resembling human words, but ends up just kind of standing there, gaping like a moron. Jackson laughs at him like the ass he is, but the corners of Derek’s mouth pull up and Stiles wants to run over and hug him, tell him that he misses him and he’s glad he’s here and he’s sorry he’s been so stubborn about the space thing; they should just forget all about it.

Instead, he gives Lydia and Jackson, who are watching his reaction with identical hawk-like expressions (so clearly someone has filled Jackass in on Stiles’ little…situation, _nice_ ) a curt nod, and turns on his heel, stomping up the stairs to lock himself in Scott’s room until dinner. 

-

Lydia comes after him, the locked door barely giving her pause.

“Hey, pumpkin,” she says, the sweetness of her words doing little to mask the evil within.

“Go away,” Stiles mumbles, sullen.

She grins down at him and pinches his cheeks. He swats her hands away and sits up with a scowl. “I hate you, you know that,” he tells her. “You couldn’t’ve given me a heads up? Not even a little, ‘Hey, Stiles, Scott is planning an ambush, retreat’?”

Her smile fades, a defensive frown taking its place. “Hey, it’s not like this was my idea.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says flatly, “but I highly doubt you protested.”

“Stiles, you try spending an evening with my parents and then tell me if you wouldn’t jump at the chance of spending Christmas _anywhere else.”_

And now Stiles feels like a dick. Because he knows Lydia better now, knows the deal with her mom and her dad and how they can’t be in the same _state_ without finding a way to argue about it, and he knows the toll that all of that fighting takes on Lydia.

“Sorry,” he says. Lydia rolls her eyes, but allows him to wrap his arm around her. “You know I’m glad you’re here, right? I’m just kind of freaking out because—”

“—Because D-E-R-E-K is here?” Lydia finishes for him in a stage-whisper. A _loud_ stage-whisper.

Stiles purses his lips and nods. “Well, he’s not four, so he knows how spell his own name, and he also has super-hearing, so, way to go.”

“Oh, I know,” Lydia says, “That was for earlier.” She pats him on the leg and stands. Stiles glares.

“I take back what I said. I’m totally not glad you’re here.”

-

Dinner is…eventful.

Oddly enough, Jackson is the root of most of the tension, not Stiles and Derek, who, somehow, end up sitting directly across from each other. (Oh, and by the way, has Stiles mentioned that he is going to murder Scott??)

Lydia, despite having invited and brought along His Douchiness, spends most of the meal ignoring him and while Allison and, astonishingly enough, Scott at least attempt small talk, asking him how it was being an American werewolf in London, the rest of the table isn’t so welcoming.

That is to say, once Stiles’ father realizes Jackson is there, his demeanor becomes a little icy (he even goes as far as to laugh when Isaac “accidentally” stabs Jackson in the hand with the turkey fork, and yeah, Stiles had laughed, too, but his dad is supposed to be the mature one in these situations). And Melissa, after asking whether or not Jackson was in fact the were-lizard that had nearly strangled her to death with its’ tail that one time and receiving an affirmative, says, “Right,” takes a rather large gulp of her wine and spends the rest of the evening avoiding looking at the area in which Jackson is sitting.

So with Stiles not talking to Derek, half the table not talking to Jackson, Allison not talking to her father and Chris not even being able to _look_ at Scott or Isaac without his knuckles going white around the handle of his knife, it’s an all around pleasant meal.

Stiles leans over to Scott and whispers, “So did you work something out with Argent or should I expect bloodshed at some point tonight? More bloodshed,” he adds belatedly, remembering Jackson’s hand.

“We called a Christmas truce,” Scott says. Isaac leans forward to nod at him around Scott reassuringly. Somehow, Stiles doesn’t feel all that reassured.

“Not that a truce would’ve been necessary if _some_ people were capable of behaving like mature adults,” Allison says loudly, having heard their “whispered” conversation.

Chris sets his wine down heavy-handedly, which isn’t at all surprising; Stiles is pretty sure he’s on his fourth or fifth glass.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Chris says sarcastically, “I guess I should have handled walking in on my seventeen year-old having sex with two — not one,” he informs the entire table, _“two_ — werewolves with more maturity.”

Scott and Isaac both wince and avoid eye contact with each other and Melissa because, judging by the look on her face, this is the first she’s heard of any of this.

Allison, on the other hand, appears to be completely unbothered. “Yeah, maybe you should have.”

Chris puffs up, looking like he’s about to blow a fuse. Several people, Stiles among them, start to put down their eating utensils and slowly push back their chairs, preparing to get the hell out of there before things get messy.

“So how does that work?” Jackson asks. Everyone stops to look at him. “Well, I’m assuming the two werewolves you got caught with are these two boneheads,” he nods towards Scott and Isaac.

Allison shrugs. “Yeah, and?”

“So how does it work?” Jackson repeats, looking genuinely curious. Stiles doesn’t blame him; if this didn’t involve Scott, who is essentially his brother, he’d probably be curious, too. But it does and he isn’t.

Allison seems to think about it and then smirks. “It works well. _Really_ well.” Scott and Isaac grin, looking to be in complete agreement, and Stiles throws up a little in his mouth.

Chris groans and bangs his head against the table. He doesn’t stop until the sheriff pulls him to his feet and leads him to the living room for something “a little stronger than that grape juice.”

Mrs. McCall gives her boys a pointed glare and follows them.

-

By the time the sheriff, Melissa and Chris come back to finish up dinner, nearly an hour later, the atmosphere is noticeably more relaxed.

Probably because by then, somewhere around 90% of the table has indulged in some type of spirit; Boyd and Isaac had split a few bottles of spiked wine with Scott and Douchemore while Lydia and Allison had passed a silver flask back and forth, not even offering any to their dear friend Stiles, who was obviously in dire need of _something_.

So, really, it’s everyone but Stiles and Derek who’ve been drinking, and now everyone else is red-faced and laughing and yelling at each other across the table, merry as can be, and Stiles is sitting here, sober and miserable, stuck in between Scott, who is busy telling Isaac he loves him, “like _a lot_ , a lot, like _so much_ , you don’t even know,” and Lydia, who is talking about some famous mathematician Stiles has never heard of with Boyd, and with nothing to distract him from the way that Derek is looking at him.

He’s working on his third helping of green beans (the only thing within his reach) when he feels a foot nudge his, almost imperceptibly. He glances up, startled, and looks at Derek. They just stare at each other for a moment, and then Derek snorts inaudibly and lifts his brows, pointedly looking down at Stiles’ mouth. Stiles’ face catches fire.

And then he realizes that Derek is just pointing out that he’d stopped mid-chew and still has green beans hanging out of his mouth. He flushes darker while Derek snickers at him from across the table.

“Shut up, dick bag,” Stiles mutters, pulling his leg back to kick Derek in the shin.

Derek predictably catches Stiles’ foot between his ankles before it connects and doesn’t let go.

“Who’s the dickbag now,” he mouths, smirking at Stiles’ indignation.

Stiles feels warm all over.

“Still you, big guy,” he responds, and Derek smiles, one of those big ones that show off those fucking adorable ass teeth and Stiles wants to fucking—

“So, Derek,” Chris says, eyes bright and glazed, clearly well past the _‘slightly_ buzzed’ portion of the evening. “How’s that girl of yours?”

Everything gets quiet. Stiles hand clenches tightly around his fork. Scott and Lydia are starting to shoot him worried looks.

And Derek, Derek isn’t looking at him at all.

“Uh.” Hands curled on top of the table, eyes on some point above Stiles’ head. “She’s good, I guess.”

“I ran into her again the other day,” Chris says loudly, unnoticing of the tension, “Nice girl. I’m glad you found someone, kid.”

“Who is it?” Isaac asks. He looks like he’s getting mad, but at the same time, he still wants to know.

Stiles feels a rush of gratitude for Scott and his ability to keep _some_ things to himself. Not that it matters now with Mr. Chatty Drunk over here.

“She teaches over at your school,” Chris answers Isaac, taking another gulp of his whiskey. “Jennifer. Brown hair, blue eyes.”

Stiles watches as it clicks into place for him.

“You mean Ms. _Blake?”_ Isaac asks skeptically, looking at Stiles, instead of Derek, for confirmation.

No one looks much surprised by this information besides Allison. Stiles is unsurprised that they are not surprised. Though, he _is_ kind of shocked that Allison didn’t know, but only because he assumed she and Boyd and Lydia had, like, a hive mind or something. If one of them knows something; all of them know something. They’re like bees.

“Who’s Blake?” Jackson asks, completely lost.

Stiles tugs his foot away from Derek and waits out Allison’s explanation about the “awesome, pretty new English teacher” while Chris and Melissa throw in their own opinions and Scott says, “She’s not _that_ great” at random intervals and Isaac glares at Derek, who is staring at Stiles like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. Stiles stays until he can’t take it anymore and excuses himself.

His dad squeezes his arm as he passes by. He’d been silent thus far during the Blake discussion and Stiles had been avoiding eye contact with him because he knew. Knew that if he looked at him, he’d see what this was doing to Stiles, and Stiles couldn’t take his dad knowing that he’d been stupid enough to fall for Derek fucking Hale.

-

Stiles doesn’t know how long he sits outside, right under the tree Scott had dared him to jump off of when they were six—it had resulted in a sprained ankle, the first of many injuries brought on by their combined idiocy—before the back door opens.

He doesn’t even have to look up to know who it is.

He’s gonna pretend he doesn’t see him, but Derek is standing on the back porch, staring straight at him with his head ducked down and his hands tucked in his pockets and the expression of a kicked puppy and Stiles just has to sigh.

Derek takes it as an invitation to join him.

“So where’s Jenny?” he asks snidely.

Derek glances at him, and looks away with a snort. “In Sacramento visiting her family.”

“What, she didn’t offer to take you with?” Stiles tries not to be pleased by the prospect and fails.

Hey, he never pretended to be mature.

Derek twitches uncomfortably. “She did.”

Stiles’ glee turns into something bitter.

“Then why didn’t you go,” he asks flatly.

Derek presses in, a solid line of warmth against Stiles’ side.

“Maybe I wanted to be here.”

Stiles lets out a ragged breath. “Maybe you should have gone.”

Derek goes rigid next to him and pulls away slightly.

“Is it really so bad that I came?”

Stiles hesitates, and has to clench his teeth together to keep from saying something stupid like, no, it wasn’t bad that he came, Stiles wanted him to be here, Stiles _always_ wants him to be here; that’s the fucking problem.

“It’s not bad, Derek,” Stiles says carefully, once he’s sure he’s not about to let slip something that could ruin everything.

Derek relaxes and moves closer again, and Stiles shudders when Derek’s hand brushes against his.

“Christ, you’re freezing, aren’t you?” Derek mutters, grabbing Stiles’ hands and covering them with his own, rubs some warmth into them. Stiles starts shuddering for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold.

Despite the way his heart is trying to jump out of his mouth, Stiles manages to give Derek a look that clearly says, _Great deduction, Sherlock_. It’s twenty fucking degrees out and he’d forgotten to grab a jacket, _no shit_ , he’s fucking freezing.

Derek ignores the silent jab, and wraps his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulls him closer, but keeps Stiles’ hands tucked inside his free one.

“You’re such a dumbass, you know that,” Derek murmurs. “Who goes outside at night in the middle of winter and forgets to take a jacket?”

“Gee, Derek, tell me how you really feel,” Stiles mutters sarcastically.

“Pretty sure I just did.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, smiling reluctantly, and knocks his shoulder into Derek’s chest.

“Fuckface.”

“Moron,” Derek says, like a reflex.

Stiles sighs, suddenly feeling lazy and content, and gives into the urge to lean against Derek. He doesn’t seem to mind.

They stay like that a while.

-

When they get back inside, there’s sounds of chatter and drunken laughter coming from the living room, A Christmas Story serving as background noise.

There’s also a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling right above the door where there wasn’t before.

Stiles is going to murder someone tonight.

He looks over at Derek, prepared to say, _ha ha, we have a couple of wise guys on our hands_ , but Derek is staring up at it, looking all cute and confused and- and, Jesus. Stiles just needs to get away from him. Would, if Derek hadn’t stepped in front of him and blocked the way.

“Mistletoe,” Derek says, mouth quirked in a funny smile and eyes unreadable.

A rough sounding, “Yeah,” is all Stiles has time to manage before Derek ducks down and presses a quick kiss to his mouth.

Stiles stares at him, mouth hanging open. “Why—?”

Derek manages to look ashamed. “It would’ve been bad luck not to,” he mumbles. A flimsy excuse, at best, and probably not even a valid one, but.

Stiles hesitates, watching color slowly fill Derek’s face.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we,” he says finally. “Between the two of us, we have enough bad luck to bring about Ragnarok,” he jokes and Derek lets out a hard laugh, obviously agreeing with him.

“I’m not sure that was enough to ward off bad luck, though, buddy,” Stiles says with a small, half-frightened, mostly bravado-fueled smirk.

It takes a split second for Derek to catch up, to _really_ get the meaning of what Stiles had just said, and Stiles can see it in his face the moment he does.

Derek moves slowly, cautiously, hands curling over the edges of his shoulders, nose barely brushing over his cheek as he slots their mouths together, like he’s giving Stiles time to back out if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

Derek’s arms wind around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as Stiles’ hands clumsily scrabble at his back and then just twist into the soft fabric of his sweater and stay there. It’s different from their last kiss, maybe because this time Stiles is completely aware, _knows_ it’s real, and it’s probably stupid, an unattainable dream at best. But Stiles swears he can _taste_ what it would be like if this could happen, if Derek didn’t already have someone, and the way Derek looks at him when they finally break apart makes him think maybe Derek can, too.

It makes it hard to walk away.

-

“So basically,” Scott says, “he cheated on Blake with you. Again.”

“It wasn’t cheating!” Stiles protests, ignoring the ‘again’ because. Yeah. He doesn’t even really have a response for that.

“There was,” he waves his hands over his head in a vaguely plant-like gesture, “y’know, mistletoe. We _had_ to. I’m pretty sure there’s a law somewhere.” Scott looks at him skeptically. “My father is a cop, Scott. We uphold the law in these parts.”

His longtime best friend—maybe too long, he needs to rethink this relationship—is still giving him his skeptical face, though now there’s an added element of judgment.

“Right,” Scott says.

Lydia stomps into his room, looking pissed off and throws herself down in between him and Stiles.

“Why did I agree to take Jackson back again?”

Stiles snorts at Scott’s ceiling. “Uh… because he’s somewhat pretty and you’re somewhat shallow? Also, you shared a true love’s kiss, which forged a magical werewolf-banshee bond that lasts forever and ever so, congratulations: you’re stuck with that for life.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Shutting up.”

Out of nowhere, Lydia grabs his chin and jerks his face over so she can see it more clearly. A smile spreads across her face.

“So I see you’ve made your peace with being the other woman.”

“What’re you—” Lydia rolls over and reaches across him to get into her handbag, which had somehow found its way onto Scott’s bed during the course of the evening. Stiles watches uneasily as she digs around. “Here.”

Stiles takes the compact mirror warily. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

Lydia shoves it up to his face and impatiently pushes his jaw until he has no choice but to look into it.

Shit.

Stubble burn. _Why_ did he not realize that there would be stubble burn.

Oh, right, probably because up until two weeks ago he was _pretty_ sure he was straight and, as a result, has never had to deal with trivial things such as stubble burn. Stiles examines the affected area in the mirror.

His lips are swollen, too. Shit, he looks like he’s been fucking _mauled_.

“Hey, Stiles, let me borrow your phone. I forgot mine downstairs.” Stiles is too busy freaking out over his face to notice the calculating looks Lydia had been giving him and therefore, does not realize that this is a trap.

He passes his phone over without a second thought.

_“Lydia!”_

“I’m coming, Jackson, _Jesus!”_ Lydia snaps, handing Stiles back his phone.

Stiles snorts. “I bet that’s the first time you ever said _that_ , huh.” Scott gives him a high five.

Lydia points at him, says, “Now I don’t feel bad,” and leaves.

“Do you ever?” Stiles calls after her. Wait. What did she mean, now she doesn’t feel bad. Feel bad about _what?_

“So, wait,” Scott says, interrupting his thought process. “Who the fuck planted the mistletoe?”

Stiles pauses.

Huh.

—

“Thanks for lending us that mistletoe, Mrs. McCall,” Lydia says to Melissa on her way out.

“Yeah, it really came in handy,” Boyd says, mouth twitching.

“No problem, kids. Anytime.” Melissa pats him on the cheek. She sways on her feet, using Boyd’s shoulder to keep herself upright. “So what’d you guys need it for anyway?”

He and Lydia exchange a look and laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Boyd answers drily, “It was for a good cause.”

—

There’s a tap on his window.

Thinking it’s just Scott, Stiles sighs, dragging his feet as he crosses the room to unlock the doggy door (as he likes to call it).

He pulls back the curtain and freezes, letting the curtain fall. And then he goes into full panic mode. 

“Are you gonna let me in or what? It’s kind of fucking cold out here.”

Stiles stares at his curtains in horror.

“Stiles,” Derek says. “Unlock. The window.”

Stiles snaps out of it and clears his throat. “Yeah, sorry. Hold on a second, man.” He pulls the curtain aside and shoves his window open and takes a step back so that Derek can get in without kicking him in the face.

“I thought you went home,” Stiles says dumbly.

The slight smile on Derek’s face turns into a slight frown.

“I did, but then I got your text.”

“Uhm.” Okay, no. Stiles had not texted Derek. Stiles has been responsibly sober all night which means no drunk texts for him. Yay Stiles. “And what text would that be, buddy?”

Derek hands him his phone.

**Stiles - « _Come over to my house later? I got you a present ;-)_ »**

Stiles nods and then shakes his head, refusing to accept what his eyes are telling him. Betrayal. Betrayal of the worst kind. He and Lydia are done. _Done._ D-O-N-E, fucking _finished_.

Derek says something that Stiles doesn’t hear.

Because seriously? A _wink-y face?_

There will be blood. And, hopefully, it will all of it be Lydia’s. Though, probably not because she is a banshee so she’d probably be able to see her own death coming a mile off which means Stiles has little to no chance of ever catching her unawares and successfully ending her life.

Wait, can banshees even see their own deaths? How does that—?

“—s. _Stiles.”_

Stiles blinks rapidly. “Oh, shit, what?”

“I—” Derek looks disappointed, stiff. “I thought. Never mind. It was a joke, right?” He puts on a smile, but his eyes don’t match it. “One of your friends?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Was it Isaac? Boyd?”

“No, but—”

“Lydia, then,” Derek decides, nostrils flaring. “I’ll see you around, Stiles.”

Stiles watches him move towards the window, panicking. “Wait! Wait.”

Derek turns expectantly, staring at him with those guarded eyes.

“I- hold on.” Stiles runs to his closet and comes back out with his arms full (but not as full as they could’ve been, Lydia insisted that he take back the Game of Thrones boxsets, deeming them unnecessary as Stiles already had them) (he regrets ever confiding in that ginger little pain in the ass).

“Here,” he thrusts his gifts into Derek’s arms, face burning. He tends to over-buy, especially when shopping for presents for the object of his affection. “Sorry I didn’t wrap anything; I didn’t even think I’d get to see you.”

Derek sets everything down carefully on Stiles’ desk. He rolls his eyes and smirks a little over the Batman socks and mug, but actually smiles over the blanket. It's the same as the one he’d stolen from Stiles, except it's new and it’ll match the doom and gloom of his room. He sees the bell Stiles had promised him all those months ago, sitting right on top like a cherry, the word ‘Fido’ engraved on the side, and goes quiet.

And then he starts laughing. Like, actual laughter. Like, happy sounding laughter that is just fucking- _Ugh._

“You’re- such- an asshole,” Derek gets out between laughs. “Why do I even—”

Stiles mind flashes back to Derek’s phone screen. “Wait, I just realized— You have me saved under _‘Moron’?”_ he asks incredulously. Derek laughs harder and Stiles puts his hands on his hips. “That is rude as hell. I don’t know if you realize this, but I am a person, okay, a person with feelings! A person that does not appreciate being secretly addressed as ‘Moron,’ you dick, I bet you laugh every time you see it, don’t you, asshol—”

Derek’s lips come crushing down on his. Stiles melts into it for a second, hand coming to rest on Derek’s arm, but then Derek’s hands move tentatively to his hips and it feels _so right_ that it makes Stiles remember all the reasons it’s not.

He stumbles back a little, nearly cracks his head on a shelf.

“Dude, what the _hell.”_

Derek follows his movements, looking concerned. “Wha—?”

Stiles holds his hands out like he’s scared of him. And maybe he is. Scared that if Derek gets any closer, he’ll do something stupid like pull him in for another kiss or tell him he loves him.

“You can’t, alright,” he says. “You can’t. You have Blake and I—”

Derek nods, licks his lips, stepping closer until Stiles’ hand is on his chest. “I know. I know that, but—”

Stiles shakes his head quickly, tries to back away, but there’s really nowhere else to go. The bookshelf is already digging into his spine. “Stop, okay? Just stop. You _have a girlfriend_ , dude.” He feels a fresh wave of shame wash over him. “I shouldn’t have- last time,” he finishes lamely. “I shouldn’t have done that. I _wouldn’t_ have done that if I was sober and thinking clearly,” he says, trying to convince himself it’s true, that he’s not _that_ guy.

Derek finally stops trying to get closer. “And earlier?” he rasps.

Stiles recalls the kiss under the mistletoe, and flushes. _“You_ kissed _me_ , alright.”

“And you kissed me back.”

Stiles lets out a growl of frustration, bites his tongue so he doesn’t yell, _of course! Of course I kissed you back, you idiot!_

He gestures at the ceiling, “There was- mistletoe!”

Derek’s expression shuts down. “Was that it? That was the only reason?”

“No,” Stiles says immediately, unable to accept the sudden blankness on Derek’s face. “Fuck, I mean, yes.” Derek stares at him, mouth starting to curve. “I mean.” Stiles gives up trying to explain himself. “Fuck, man, what do you _want_ me to say?”

Derek looks at him, wordlessly.

“Hold on,” he says, moving across the room.

“Wait, wh—”

Derek jumps out of the window before Stiles can stop him.

He stands there a few minutes, worried he’d finally managed to scare Derek off.

“You could’ve just gone out the front, you know,” Stiles says when his face reappears over the sill, “My dad’s out for the count. Him and Argent drank so much, it’s a wonder they’re not dead.”

“Window’s faster,” Derek grunts, pulling himself back inside.

“One of these days, I’m gonna end up putting a flap on this,” Stiles mutters while he closes the window behind him. “Buy you guys those collars with the chips on them, so I don’t have to worry about anyone untoward trying to get inside my room.”

Derek snorts. “You mean besides yourself.”

“Yes, but I won’t be the one using the doggy door, now will I?” Stiles says seriously.

Derek elbows him lightly in the ribs and Stiles laughs.

“So what’d you go outside for?”

Derek doesn’t meet his eyes, just shoves something at him, mumbling, “I got you a present, too.”

Stiles fake-gasps. “For me?” He clutches it to tightly to his chest and shoves Derek away coyly. “Oh, sweet potato, you shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up,” Derek grumbles.

Stiles snickers and unfolds his gift. Something small and cold falls into his hand, but he tucks it behind the larger thing, which he holds up to get a better look at. It’s not wrapped, hell, there’s not even tags on it, but Stiles loves it immediately.

“Dude, you know me so well,” he says. “Look,” Stiles shakes his brand-spanking-new Batman t-shirt at Derek’s own brand-spanking-new Batman paraphernalia, “it’s like we coordinated our gifts.” Derek rolls his eyes, but can’t quite hide that he’s smiling.

The other thing, the thing that had fallen into Stiles’ hand, turns out to be a key. There’s nothing special about it, other than it looks freshly cut, shiny and new, but it feels…significant.

There’s a note attached to it that says: _‘Promise I won’t confiscate this one’_ in that familiar, shitty handwriting.

Stiles blinks down at it, throat uncomfortably tight. He is not going to start crying over a key and shitty handwriting. No he’s not.

“What, you don’t like my gift?”

Derek looks amused, but sounds almost strangely vulnerable.

Unthinking, Stiles lunges and throws his arms around him, smacking into Derek’s chest and knocking a quiet grunt out of him.

“Nah, man, it’s perfect. Thanks,” Stiles mumbles into his shoulder. He feels like he should maybe clap Derek on the back and back off, turn this into something that’s friendly instead of… _more_ , but he just can’t bring himself to do it.

Derek’s hands, which had been awkwardly curled against his back, slide down to rest on his waist.

Stiles pulls back some, startled, and stares at Derek. He’d never noticed, but they’re almost exactly the same height. He licks his lips absently, and for a second, it looks like Derek is gonna kiss him again. And God, Stiles wants him to. It doesn’t happen.

Derek groans a little, looking helpless, and drops his head to Stiles’ shoulder.

“See, we can be friends without it being weird,” Stiles says, mostly for his own benefit.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees hoarsely. “Friends.”

“Zero weirdness,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s hair. Just two bros, holding each other like lovers. That’s all. It’s the most natural thing in the world.

Someone stumbles down the hallway and they guiltily jerk apart. Stiles goes and sets his new shirt down on the dresser while Derek stands across the room, running his fingers over his new blanket, expression blank, but ears and neck still flushed.

Belatedly, Stiles realizes that it had probably just been Argent getting up to use the bathroom or something. He’d been abandoned at the McCall’s by his daughter and had refused to let Stiles drive him home, insisting that he needed to stay with his best buddy John, (“Yeah, Stiles, he wants to stay with me; just listen to the man”) so guess who’s occupying the couch this evening. At least now Stiles knows to never ever let John and Chris drink together. They started acting like a couple of belligerent teenagers and it was fucking annoying trying to get them to put the bottle down and go to bed. Stiles shouldn’t have to deal with that; he’s not the parent, alright, _he’s_ the belligerent teenager.

Stiles leans against his dresser, fingers tapping nervously. “So,” he says, trying to seem nonchalant, “you wanna stick around and watch Netflix?”

Derek gives him a signature half-smile.

“Sure.”

-

Stiles wakes to a quiet snuffling sound.

Shit. He doesn’t even remember passing out.

What he remembers is, arguing with Derek for ten minutes straight over what movie they should watch and finally agreeing upon finishing off the eighth season of Supernatural, which they’d done. Then they’d taken a short break, raided the kitchen and broke out the barely cold leftovers Scott had sent home with Stiles, and Stiles had allowed himself to be manipulated into making Derek his stupid cocoa. After that, they’d gone back upstairs and put on some mindless movie while the two of them bickered over nothing. It was nice, peaceful even. He must’ve fallen asleep sometime after that.

Derek snuffles again, shifting in his sleep. Stiles tries to make himself as small as possible, to keep from accidentally brushing against Derek and waking him up, and in doing so, manages to accomplish exactly that.

“Stiles?” Derek asks blearily.

A hand tentatively brushes against his hip and Stiles shivers involuntarily.

“Yeah, buddy,” he answers, voice raspy and strange. He clears his throat. “Right here.” He reaches back and pats Derek’s hand, “Go back to sleep.”

Stiles shuts his eyes tight and tries to take his own advice.

But instead of drawing away, like he _should,_ Derek’s touch becomes more firm, warm hand slipping under Stiles’ shirt to rest on his bare skin.

Stiles debates whether or not he should allow this for approximately two-point-five seconds before shifting until his back is against Derek’s chest and Derek’s arm is comfortably draped across his waist, hand still under his shirt, but resting on his belly now.

Stiles thinks he feels the tip of Derek’s nose skimming over his shoulder, and then Derek sighs, sounding immensely satisfied.

“Night, Stiles,” he mumbles, seeming to drop off immediately. And even though Derek’s soft breaths are rustling his hair, sending stray strands to tickle uncomfortably against the nape of his neck, Stiles finds himself fighting to keep his eyes open. He falls asleep wishing he knew what the fuck Derek is thinking.

-

Derek is gone when he wakes up.

Stiles sighs and gets up, grabs Derek’s key off his desk with the intention of putting it on his key ring, and accidentally knocks the note to the floor. When he reaches for it, he notices that there’s writing on the other side now, too.

_‘I don’t like it when you’re not around.’_

Stiles allows himself to hope.

And he hates himself for it, hates Derek for _letting_ him. Because Derek was the one who told him it couldn’t happen, had a fucking _girlfriend,_ and then he went and did shit like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *imaginary mic in my hand* _When we’re huuuungryyy, love will keep us aliiiive_
> 
> SN: ‘Contestame’ basically means answer me or respond in Español, ‘pendejo’ is slang for stupid or idiot (ha). It’s not too complicated, crackers. (Lol, jk. It's coo)
> 
> Captain's Log May 17th, 5:08 PM. I like pretending I'm an adult, but the reality is that I sleep all day and watch cartoons and then answer the door in my pajamas at 5 in the afternoon and scream at people not to judge me, I'm a functioning member of society
> 
> Captain's Log May 18th, 5:42 A.M. Idk panties is just a really creepy word to me
> 
> Captain's Log May 19th, 4:01 A.M. I just told my laptop that I was going to fucking murder it and that I was going to enjoy it and someone outside laughed. On the bright side, my one-sided conversations with inanimate objects are apparently not as psychotic-sounding as I assumed. On the not so bright side, people can apparently hear me having said one-sided conversations with inanimate objects _from outside_


	7. It feels like there’s oceans between you and me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done. My masterpiece ;-; haha jk it's a piece of shit, I know. Just a few more chapters, guys, stay strong. Thank you for the comments and stuff, I love each and every one, (even the mean ones that make me cry) jk cause like dad always says, crying is for pussies ha ha (T-T) (My father is obviously a gem) lol no, but I am working on replies. It's gonna happen
> 
> Sorry if (that) it’s shitty. I don’t know what’s wrong with my head Also, sorry if parts of this end up not making sense. I did a lot of editing, literally had sixteen drafts, so something might have slipped through the cracks.
> 
> Chapter title from ‘Oceans’ by Seafret

Stiles is lightly dozing, this lame (totally awesome) cooking show playing on Netflix serving as background noise, when something wakes him. He props himself up on his elbows and waits, not completely sure he hadn’t been dreaming, but the sound comes again, like metal on glass. Or claws. It sets his teeth on edge.

He gets out of bed as quietly as he can and frantically looks around. His chances of survival are slim as it is and his dad’s at work, his phone’s probably under his pillow, he’s disoriented as hell, practically dead on his feet; he has a bat somewhere, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to find it in time to protect himself anyhow. He hears the window being shoved up and grabs the only thing within his reach. Which is a pencil.

Yeah, he’s not really loving his odds if this actually does turn out to be a creature of the night. Y’know. One that he doesn’t count amongst his friends.

A hand appears through the curtains and his heartbeat kicks up a notch.

Oh, god. He’s gonna die. He’s gonna die, and he’s in Superman pajamas. He’ll never live it down.

He glances back at his bed.

If he moves fast enough, maybe he can get a text off to Scott and tell him to make sure that no one hears he went out like this.

Derek pokes his head through the drapes and lifts an eyebrow. “Oh no. You’ve discovered my one true weakness. Please. Just put the pencil down so we can talk about this.”

Stiles relaxes his defensive position with a hard roll of his eyes. “Oh, hardy fucking _har.”_ He puts a hand on Derek’s forehead and pushes.

It’s meant to be a light, _playful_ shove, and with all of that lupine grace, Stiles thought Derek would deflect or at least keep his grip on the window, but, apparently, he really hadn’t expected it because he falls and hits the ground two stories below.

Stiles leans over the windowsill and winces. “My bad,” he calls down. Derek lets out a strangled grunt in response. “Hold on a second.”

Derek looks a little disoriented when he gets downstairs, but he’s sitting up now so Stiles is going to take that as a good sign. Hell, he probably could’ve stopped and put on some shoes, maybe even a jacket.

“Fucking hate you,” Derek mumbles, and Stiles laughs.

Werewolves are resilient. Derek’ll be alright, probably.

“You know, if you’d turned out to be a vampire, I could’ve dusted your ass with that pencil,” Stiles says matter-of-factly.

Derek gingerly touches the back of his head and grumbles something like, “you can dust my ass, now, dickwad.”

Stiles grins and holds a hand out to help him up. “You okay there, big guy?”

Derek wobbles on his feet and Stiles places a hand on his elbow to steady him. “Think so. Maybe some warning next time so I can remove the rocks on the ground outside your window. Wouldn’t want to hurt them _with my head_ or anything.”

Stiles claps Derek on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, buddy. Gotta look out for Mother Nature.”

Derek shoots him a dark look and “accidentally” steps on his foot.

-

“So what brings you here on this fine evening?” Stiles asks later when Derek has stopped whining about Stiles trying to kill him. The frozen pack of peas Stiles had given him to nurse his head injury is sitting in a pool of condensation on the coffee table now.

Derek makes a face, looking like he’s of half a mind to run away. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess,” he grunts reluctantly. “Sorry. It’s kind of late.”

Stiles shrugs it off, “Nah, it’s only—” he pauses to check the time, “Two in the morning. That’s totally a perfectly normal time to make a house call,” he lies brightly.

Derek grimaces sheepishly into his glass of water, but Stiles just smiles. “You know, I feel like we should eventually talk about the whole ‘waking Stiles up in the middle of the night’ thing, but eh. I wasn’t really planning on doing anything tonight besides watching porn, anyway.”

Derek chokes on his water.

Stiles keeps his expression neutral, holding back a laugh, and commends himself on his impeccable timing.

Derek glares at him and wipes his jaw off. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure it was cooking show playing when I came up, not porn.”

Stiles puts a hand on his chest, scandalized. _“Food_ porn, Derek. Jesus, mind out of the gutter. There are children present.”

Derek gives him a look. “I’m well aware,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Aware _wolf,”_ Stiles says immediately, and laughs for about an hour because he saw what he did there.

Derek throws his pack of peas at Stiles with a sound of disgust and leaves.

By the time Stiles finally stops laughing, Derek is in his room, the first nine episodes of the tenth season of Supernatural all bought and paid for and queued up on the laptop.

“We doing this or what?” Derek asks flatly.

Stiles throws himself at Derek, knocking him over sideways on the bed. “You’re the best.”

Derek harrumphs and pushes Stiles off of him. “Whatever, moron, just go get us something to eat.”

For a second, it’s like they’re back to what they were before Stiles went and made everything complicated. But then Derek has to go and stretch, his shirt riding up and giving Stiles a nice view of his stomach, and –

Damn.

“And get me a soda,” Derek adds, apparently not noticing his display of indecency. He’s glaring like he’s daring Stiles to fight him on something, and it takes Stiles a second to actually remember what they were talking about.

He pastes on a grin and jumps to his feet, forcing himself to behave normally. “Anything for you, cupcake,” he chirps. “Back in a sec!”

The second he gets downstairs, his smile falls flat. Friends, he tells himself. Just friends. Just two perfectly normal buddies hanging out in bed, and not inappropriately touching at all.

“What’s taking you so long?”

Stiles turns and sees Derek leaning over the railing, looking bored. “It’s literally been two seconds, wolfie, hold your fucking—” He stops midsentence, jaw working. “Are you wearing my pjs?”

Derek straightens up awkwardly, defiantly crossing his arms. “Maybe.”

Stiles pretends to consider it. “Mm, nope. Definitely. You are definitely wearing my pjs.”

Derek flushes so dark Stiles can see it clear from the kitchen. “Whatever. Shut up, they’re comfortable. Hurry up with the food.” And with that, Derek walks back into his room and slams the door.                 

Stiles doesn’t know what brought any of that on, because as far as he knows, Derek sleeps in his jeans like it’s his job, but Stiles is not gonna be the one to complain. Besides, Derek pulls those fucking Pokémon pajama pants off better than he ever could.

Stiles looks down and groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, get it together, man,” he mutters angrily, readjusting his dick and taking a short moment to calm himself before awkwardly waddling to the fridge.

—

 **Derek -** **«** **_No._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Dude. Come on._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Not happening._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_And how many times do I have to tell you not to call me dude._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_but Deeerrreeeekkkk_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_No._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_BUT STAR TREK_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_I’ll watch the newer movies if I have to, but we are not watching all fifty series._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_There’s no way in Hell._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_There’s only five!_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Plus the animated series_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_And we can’t just NOT watch all the movies, Derek, it’s just not done._ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_How many movies are there Stiles._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Just twelve_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Yeah. I’ll watch the newer two. That’s it._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Booooo_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_The newer two and the original series?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Fine._ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_FUCK yeah!_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Wait. How many episodes are there in that_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Oh just seventy nine hour-long episodes_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Plus the unaired pilot_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **« _So eighty._ »**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_No take backs!_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Goddammit_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_Hah_ **

An arm winds its’ way around his neck. Stiles cringes for a moment before recognizing the stench of pretentiousness and money.

 _“So,_ who were we texting the entire movie?” Jackson asks conversationally. He doesn’t even wait for a reply before starting to drag Stiles over to the parking lot to join everyone by the cars. It’s the last week before school starts up again, and by some miracle, they’d managed to pick both a day they were all free and a movie they were all interested in seeing, which is a feat in itself. The movie had turned out to be shit, but what can you do.

“Let me guess, does it start with ‘D’ and end with an ‘-erek’?”

“Oh, Jackson,” Stiles says drily, “How I’ve missed your wit.”

Jackson surprises him by laughing, messing his hair up and shoving him towards Scott.

They’ve only hung out a couple times since he came back stateside, but from what Stiles has seen of him, Jackson has mellowed out considerably. He’s just a regular, ol’ ass now—when compared to the mega-ass he was before.

Scott grabs him and throws an arm over his shoulders. “We’re going back to Lydia’s; Danny and Ethan are picking up some food and shit.” Scott says, looking all excited and adorable. “You’re coming, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll just—” _catch a ride with you._

“I can give him a ride,” Jackson offers. They all shoot him looks of surprise. Stiles included. Hell, Stiles especially _._ Jackass might’ve mellowed out, but he and Stiles were still in no way close to what you’d call friendly. “Me and Stilinski, here, have catching up to do.” Jackson gives them a serene smile. Stiles eyes him suspiciously and huddles closer to Scott. It’s only about fifty percent for warmth.

Boyd throws an almost sympathetic look his way before leaving with Allison and Lydia, which only makes Stiles even more frightened of Jackson’s intentions.

Isaac squeezes Stiles’ shoulder, looking like he’s enjoying his discomfort immensely, and claps Jackson on the back. “You two kids have fun, now.”

Jackson smirks in response. “Oh, we will.”

Thanks to Scott and his mandatory post-Christmas scrimmage he’d forced everyone into attending, Jackson and Isaac get along now. All it took was Isaac body checking Jackson a good dozen times and Jackson just standing there and taking it like it was some sort of fucked up recompense for past misdeeds. Eventually, Isaac had lost most of his outright hostility towards him and started concentrating more on the game. Which, believe it or not, went a lot smoother after he stopped attacking his own teammate.

Turns out Stiles is not a fan of their budding friendship.

Scott hangs back, clearly waiting to see if Stiles needs rescuing. “See you in a minute?” Stiles shrugs, and Scott takes it as, _go ahead,_ _we’re good,_ and jogs after Isaac _._

Jackson puts an arm around his shoulder and steers him towards the douche-mobile. “Speaking of Derek-”

“We weren’t,” Stiles says automatically. “Who was speaking of Derek? ‘Cause I wasn’t, I don’t even know who that is.”

Jackson ignores him. “How’s your little butt buddy doing these days?” he asks cheerfully.

Stiles sighs internally. Of course, now it’s too late to call for help, he thinks as he watches Scott and Isaac peel out of the parking lot after Allison.

Jackson smirks down at him, eyes glittering evilly, and pushes him over to the passenger side. “Didn’t really get a chance to talk to him on Christmas,” he says casually as Stiles shoots him a dirty look and readjusts his clothing. “I would’ve tried harder to engage him, but he seemed pretty _engaged_ with shoving his tongue down your throat.”

Stiles turns bright red, mouth hanging open, and stares at him over the top of the car. “Did Lydia—?”

Jackson waves him off. “Nah, Lydia didn’t have to tell me. I saw it for myself.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Here’s a bit of advice: if you don’t want anyone to know; you should probably _not_ make out while you’re in a house full of werewolves.” Stiles lets out a groan of despair and hides his face until Jackson unlocks the doors.

“Looked pretty heavy, though,” Jackson continues once they’re inside, oblivious to Stiles’ inner turmoil. Or perhaps, relishing in it because he is, in fact, Satan. “I thought he was seeing someone. Teacher, right? Or was that all made up or something?”

And goddammit, Stiles should’ve played it off. He should’ve played it off instead of choking up and staying uncharacteristically quiet.

 _“Oh,”_ Jackson says in the tone of someone whose dreams have just come true, “So he _is_ seeing someone.

“He’s just screwing around with you, too.”

Stiles hears blood rushing in his ears.

Jackson is not similarly concerned by this conversation.

“Got to hand it to Hale; I honestly didn’t think he had it in him,” he says, sounding mildly impressed. “Any game,” he explains at the confused look Stiles throws him. “But he must have some if he’s got you trailing after him like that. Plus, I heard his girlfriend’s, like, super hot. That’s what Allison said, anyway. Oh, yeah,” Jackson laughs, glancing over at Stiles, “you were there, weren’t you? Talk about an awkward dinner.”

Stiles glares down at his lap and prays for Jackson to stop talking.

But of course, Jackson takes his silence as license to continue. “So is it true? Is Derek’s girlfriend hot?” He pauses. “I bet she is. Derek isn’t so bad himself. Or he wouldn’t be, if he weren’t such a dick.”

“Shut up.”

Jackson looks at him in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me,” Stiles says angrily. “You don’t know shit about what’s been going on with me and Derek, so why don’t you just mind your fucking business.”

Jackson raises a hand, placating. “Hey, I’m not judging—”

“Oh, Mr. Vengeance Lizard and his trail of murder victims isn’t judging _me,”_ Stiles says sarcastically, throwing up his hands, “It’s a Christmas Miracle!”

Jackson huffs, looking mortally offended, his mouth working silently. “Rude,” he says finally, and Stiles nearly chokes on an incredulous laugh because Jackson calling _him_ rude? That’s frigging hysterical.

They’re both silent for a while after that, Jackson pouting and Stiles fuming and glaring out the window.

“You could’ve just said you didn’t want to talk about it,” Jackson mutters, still sulking.

“I think my not talking about it was a pretty clear indicator that I _didn’t want to talk about it,”_ Stiles snaps back.

“God, _fine,_ last time I try to do anything nice for you, assface.”

“How. How the hell is you being a nosy assclown doing something nice for me,” Stiles says.

“I just thought you could use someone to talk to,” Jackson says with a shrug. “Someone who doesn’t hate Derek’s guts like McCall clearly does and doesn’t really care about the cheating part. A neutral third party, so to speak.”

Stiles blinks.

Huh. That’s actually…kind of nice. But, “How do you not care about the cheating? Have you no morals?”

Jackson shrugs again. “She’s probably a bitch or something, right? Why else would Derek cheat on her with you.”

Stiles doesn’t let himself be insulted. Because even if it _is_ really mean and hurtful, he knows better than to take it to heart. That’s just how Jackson operates. He pulls punches for no one (but Lydia) (mostly out of sheer self-preservation) (Lydia is scary), and even though Stiles kind of mostly hates him, he has to respect him for that. Or just hate him. Hate is easier.

“Actually,” Stiles says reluctantly, “She’s really nice. Funny, too. She’s great.”

“Then, why were you and Derek—”

“I don’t know, okay.” Stiles says harshly, cutting him off. “I don’t know.”

Jackson looks at him with wide eyes and nods.

“I—” Stiles drags his hands through his hair and stares out the window, watching the scenery fly by. His phone chimes with a new message.

 **Derek -** **«** **_So I’ll see you later?_ ** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Checked Netflix. Both of those stupid movies are on there._ ** **»**

Stiles smirks, the tension building up in his spine immediately dissipating. Jackson glances at him curiously, but Stiles shakes his head.

 **Stiles -** **«** **_And TOS?_ ** **0:-)** **»**

 **Derek -** **«** **_Yes Stiles Jesus fucking Christ_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_K, see you later grumpypants!_ ** **»**

Stiles almost laughs thinking about the bitchface Derek is probably making at his phone right now. Crap, he’s smiling like an idiot just thinking about it.

Maybe he _should_ talk to someone about this. Someone that’s not Lydia, who keeps on making thinly veiled threats pertaining to Derek and the removal of his junk, and Scott, who wrinkles his nose in distaste every time he catches a hint of Derek on Stiles. Which is more often than not these days.

He puts his phone in his pocket and braces himself for the travesty that is about to occur.

Stiles Stilinski and Jackson fucking Whittemore are gonna talk feelings.

“I like him.”

Jackson looks startled, like he didn’t think Stiles was actually gonna take him up on his offer. “You like…Derek,” he repeats slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Grouchy, stubborn-ass Derek.”

“Yeah.”

“But the eyebrows on that man _alone—”_

Stiles laughs in spite of himself. “Shut up, dickbag. I like the eyebrows. They give him character.”

Jackson gives him a look of horror. “No, the cheekbones and the eyes and the fact that he’s a _werewolf_ give him character. The eyebrows are just overkill.”

Stiles passes on a snide comment about him knowing someone else who’s a fan of overkill that’s sitting in this very car—a sign of the Apocalypse, probably—and shrugs. “I don’t know, man. He’s just—” He feels a goofy smile pushing at the corners of his mouth. “He’s—”

Jackson holds a hand out in front of his face, looking nauseous. “If you say ‘sweet’ I will literally pull over, pull you out of this car and throw up all over you.”

Stiles bats his hand away. “No, shut up. He’s an asshole, I know that. And he’s grumpy, like, _all the time._ We argue _so_ much; maybe a little too much. But I like him.”

Jackson nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay. I guess I can understand that. Me and Lydia argue all the time, too.” He smirks, and elbows Stiles. “Makes the sex hotter, huh.”

Stiles scratches his nose, face going a ruddy red. “Yeah, we haven’t…done. That.”

“No shit?” Jackson raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, like _nope, leaving that one alone_.

Stiles sighs. “What?”

“Nothing, man.”

“Spit it out, Whittemore.”

“No, no, it’s just- you two looked pretty. Uhm, comfortable. With each other.”

“We spend a lot of time together,” Stiles says, face heating.

“Yeah, no shit,” Jackson repeats, laughing. “I got a whiff of you when your dad dropped you off and I thought Derek was hiding under your shirt. That’s not what I meant.”

Stiles doesn’t ask what it is he actually meant. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer. “Doesn’t matter now anyway,” he sighs. “We’re just friends. Nothing more.”

Jackson looks doubtful, but he nods. There’s another lapse in conversation.

“For what it’s worth,” Jackson says suddenly. “I think you guys would’ve been good together.”

Stiles looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. “You’ve only been back for like a week and you’ve seen Derek, what, once? How could you possibly know we’d be good together?”

“Well, yeah, maybe, but I know that Derek was a raging douchenozzle before I left and he’s not anymore. He seems to have eased up on the lone wolf act a bit-” (Stiles snorts) “-and from what everyone’s been telling me, it’s because of you.”

Objectively, Stiles knows all that, that Derek is more people-friendly these days and it’s partially due to him, but it’s different having someone say it out loud.

Makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Lydia missed you,” he says, feeling kindly towards Jackson. It is a foreign but not altogether unpleasant sensation.

Jackson nods. “And I missed her. Which is why I came back. I couldn’t stand being away from her anymore.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows, surprised and kind of impressed by the admission. Jackson glances at him, notices him staring and double takes, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothing, man,” Stiles says with a wide half-smile, half-smirk.

Jackson glances away from the road and groans, “Jesus Christ, _what.”_

“You did some growing up while you were away,” Stiles sniffles, wiping imaginary tears away from the corners of his eyes. _“I’msoproud.”_

“Fucking asshole,” Jackson mutters, reaching over to flick him on the ear and turn the radio up. “Trying to have an adult conversation…” He continues talking under his breath, while Stiles laughs at him.

After that, the ride goes back to being quiet, but it’s comfortable now. For some reason, Stiles thoughts turn to that conversation he’d had with Lydia a few months back after he’d propositioned her and she’d let him down easy, saying he’d find someone better and him not believing her, but finally accepting that it was never gonna happen and being better for it because if Lydia is this much of a controlling, pain in the ass just as a friend, then god only knows how much worse she’d be if Stiles was in an actual relationship with her.

His phone goes off again, signaling another text.

 **Derek -** **«** **_Leave your window unlocked_ ** **»**

 **Stiles -** **«** **_For you? Always_ ** **:3** **»**

Stiles smiles, picturing Derek fighting a smile and rolling his eyes at Stiles’ lame joke, and thinks that maybe Lydia was right.

 **Derek -** **«** **_See you tonight, moron._ ** **»**

Maybe he did find something better.

His smile gradually fades as he remembers that he’s trying to stop thinking about Derek that way.

Jackson turns the radio down a little while later, noticing his now somber mood. “You alright?”

Stiles nods without looking at him. “Yup.”

Nothing better than friendship, he tells himself.

—

Derek climbs through his window promptly at 7:47, not even two minutes after his dad leaves for shift. Stiles is going to put down to impeccable timing and not to Derek waiting around outside for him to leave.

“Move over.” Derek shuts the window and goes straight for Stiles’ bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his jacket before climbing in besides him.

“Jesus, did you run here? You’re so fucking hot,” Stiles groans, pushing his blankets off.

“Thanks, you’re not half bad yourself,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles’ favorite pillow—from beneath his head—and sticking it under his own.

Stiles gapes over at him, exasperation and amusement warring. “You’re such an ass sometimes.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” Derek says.

Stiles narrows his eyes, face heating. “Well, I’m obviously a moron.”

Derek grins, quick and bright. “Now you’re getting it.”

Stiles props himself up against the headboard with a groan. “Dude, stop acting like you have a sense of humour. We both know you don’t; let’s cut the act.”

“I have a great sense of humour,” Derek argues, rolling onto his side and looking up at Stiles.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true, big guy. I think it’s just me rubbing off on you.” Derek’s expression goes kind of funny at that, and it takes Stiles a second to realize why.

Wording, Stiles, _Jesus fucking Christ_.

Before he can apologize, Derek looks away, reaches up and fiddles with a stray string on the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt. “Yeah, you could be right.” He goes quiet after that and Stiles contents himself with playing some mindless game on his phone until Derek’s ministrations become too distracting. Laughing, he catches Derek’s hand in his own and stops him. Derek looks up, questioning.

“Tickles,” Stiles says.

“Oh.” Derek glances away, back to where Stiles is still holding his hand, which is probably a sign that he should let go, but he doesn’t and Derek doesn’t pull away or shake him off so Stiles leaves it. He idly wonders if their hands fitting together like this means something. Probably not. In the grand scheme of things, hand compatibility probably doesn’t amount to much.

Besides, none of this, the random make outs and the time spent, means anything if Derek doesn’t _want_ it to mean anything, and Stiles is pretty sure that he doesn’t.

He makes himself let go.

After a while he kicks Derek and gets up. “C’mon.”

Derek follows him easily enough. “What are we doing?”

“Kitchen raid. We’re gonna need sustenance for our Star Trek marathon.”

Derek groans. “I was hoping you forgot.”

Stiles grins over at him and knocks their shoulders together. “Course not. I knew how much you were looking forward to it.”

Derek gives him a dirty look. “Yeah. I was the one looking forward to this. I was not harassed into letting this happen.”

“You don’t have to tell me, man; I was there.”

Derek grumbles under his breath, but he follows Stiles downstairs and helps him prepare their feast of leftovers and other microwaveable junk.

All in all, it’s not a bad way to spend the evening.

—

It’s the last weekend before school starts up again and things are going well.

Stiles hardly ever even gets the urge to kiss Derek’s big, ugly face anymore.

It was a little touch and go on New Year’s Eve, but Stiles persevered. Derek had, for some reason, decided it pertinent to stay in with Stiles, who couldn’t go out because he’d gotten himself sick again. (Which probably had something to do with him running across an ice cold lawn without shoes on at two a.m. in December, and alright, yeah, it was totally his own fault for pushing Derek out of that window, clearly, he deserved to be punished, but God, did Derek really have to stay with him and make him soup and generally just be all… _nice?_ What the fuck is that? They aren’t _nice_ to each other. Their relationship is based entirely on them being assholes and, like, food.)

Stiles had almost been relieved when his father came home before the ball dropped. He’s not sure how that would’ve ended, but he has a feeling it would’ve been bad.

In, like, the moral sense. Because it probably would’ve been awesome. And no, he totally did not get himself off later that night to thoughts of how awesome it could’ve been.

Anyway, Stiles has all that “feelings” nonsense under control now.

Fuck, okay, so that’s a bag of shit, but it’s a bag of shit Stiles is forcing himself to swallow for the sake of his sanity and also for the sake of his eternal soul.

It’s not entirely all on him, he knows that. He and Derek have been talking a lot, calling, texting, randomly showing up at each other’s houses. Just to hang out, like friends. Because that’s what they are.

But Scott’s worried about it, Stiles can tell. He’d probably be even more worried if he knew that lately Derek has made a habit of falling asleep in Stiles’ bed after hours of marathoning TOS and staying overnight—which is why Stiles is not telling him.

Besides, it’s not a big deal. So they’ve blurred the lines a bit, making out those few—three—times (not that Stiles is counting). Friends do that, alright. Friends make out from time to time, and text each other all day and, and- and cuddle when they just so happen to fall asleep together.

And yeah, Derek might take his shirt off occasionally, and Stiles might sometimes, okay, _every_ time, end up wrapped around him, or vice versa, during the course of the evening, but it’s all very innocent. There’ve been countless opportunities for Derek to initiate something—again, New Year’s Eve (though Stiles can’t really blame Derek for not trying to kiss him when he was leaking snot everywhere)—and he hasn’t.

So, clearly, it doesn’t mean anything, and no, Stiles is not disappointed about this. Not disappointed in the slightest.

—

Scott waltzes in and makes as if to throw himself across Stiles’ bed, but comes up short, wrinkling his nose. He throws himself at the desk chair instead and spins around in it sullenly.

“I don’t like this.”

Stiles looks at him over his phone, eyebrows up. “Don’t like what?”

“It smells like him in here.”

Stiles cheeks go blotchy red. He goes back to staring resolutely at his phone. “Does he smell bad or something?”

 _“Yes,”_ Scott says automatically. “Well, no, not really, but it’s not even that. It’s just, I don’t get why he’s here so much,” he whines. “I thought he was with Ms. Blake.” He winces and looks at Stiles, eyes large and apologetic. “Sorry, that was fucked.”

“True though.” Stiles gives a little shrug and pretends like Scott hadn’t basically just stabbed him through the heart. He’s gotten very good at not thinking about Derek and Blake. Kinda sucks when other people bring it up, though.

Scott gets out of his seat and jumps on top of Stiles, noticeably breathing through his mouth, but valiantly making an attempt to seem unaffected. “Wanna break out the PS2 and play Crash?”

Stiles immediately stands, knocking Scott on the ground, reply coming before Scott really even finishes his sentence. “Fuck yeah, man, let’s do this shit.”

Scott does that cool little werewolf thing where he pushes off the ground and lands on his feet. “Sweet. You get first go.”

_Obviously._

“Because I’m better,” Stiles says loftily.

“Because you die faster,” Scott corrects, grabbing the old console out of Stiles’ closet. “Hey, what was that song you were humming when I came in?”

Stiles leers at him. “Think hard, buddy.”

“I know it’s the Killers, but I just can’t—” Scott’s eyes widen and his face screws up in disgust. “Oh, God, it was Believe Me Natalie, wasn’t it. You sing to your fucking _hand,_ Stiles?”

Stiles grins.

“You’re fucking gross,” Scott says judgmentally.

 _“You’re_ fucking gross.”

Stiles follows Scott downstairs, bickering the entire way about who’s the grossest and who’s more adept at playing Crash Bandicoot, his slightly bruised heart forgotten for the moment.

—

He’s jolted from his sleep by the jostling of the mattress. Derek is stripped down to his shirt and a pair of sweats and is wearing a grimace, nose wrinkled in distaste. Stiles rubs his eyes and bites back a laugh. He’s wearing the same face Scott wears whenever he catches a whiff of Derek.

“Was McCall here earlier?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says cheerfully. “We played video games all day. It was awesome.”

Derek grunts and sullenly buries his nose in Stiles’ pillow.

“God, werewolves are so weird,” Stiles says, unable to keep the fondness from his voice.

“Says the scrawny human that hangs out with a pack of them,” Derek mutters, almost imperceptible.

“Whatever, dickbag. You know I’m awesome.”

“Sure you are.”

Stiles kicks out, striking him in the leg. “Asshole. I’m not talking to you anymore, you’re mean.”

Derek perks up. “You’re not talking? What, is it my birthday?”

Stiles glares at him and pointedly grabs his laptop, puts his headphones in and starts up Netflix.

Over the sound of Star Trek, he can barely make out Derek talking. He points to his ears and mouths, “Not getting anything, sorry.”

Derek rolls his eyes and pulls an earbud out. “You know I can still hear it, right?”

“I don’t know how with those tiny ass ears,” Stiles says, trying to wrestle away his earphone from Derek’s unrelenting grip. “You’re gonna break them,” he whines.

“Good. And I don’t have tiny ears, Dumbo.”

“Really, Derek? You’re gonna come at me with that lame-ass Disney kid comment? All this time with me as your best friend and that’s what you came up with? Have I taught you nothing?”

“You’re not my best friend, Stiles.”

“Sorry, I meant only friend.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, no, no, no, no, fuck _you_ , buddy.”

“No, really,” Derek says. “Fuck you.”

“‘No, really, fuck you,’” Stiles says mockingly.

John sticks his head in. “I think we got the point.”

Derek springs up, and they both freeze, expressions guilty because Stiles hasn’t technically informed his father about his frequent sleepovers with his twenty-five year old best friend.

The sheriff stares at them for a long minute, letting them stew, and then says, “Okay, well, I’m going to work. Good to see you, Derek. Night boys.”

John ducks out before Stiles can get a word in edgewise, and when he finally does, the only thing that comes to mind is, “Shit.”

Derek’s head falls forward, ears bright red.

“I didn’t even realize he was here,” he says, sounding ashamed of himself.

“You’d be a horrible guard dog,” Stiles says mildly.

“I’m not a dog, brat.”

“Of course not.” He casually puts his hand on the back of Derek’s head and scratches at his scalp just so he can see him goes boneless like a puppy.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek sighs, sounding too content to really mean it.

Stiles smiles, “Yes, dear.”

After a while, Derek lets out an irritated groan and pulls away.

“What?”

“Scott smells.”

Stiles is offended on Scott’s behalf. “Well, he says the same thing about you, buddy.”

Derek scowls and rubs his hands all over Stiles’ face and neck, trying to bury Scott’s scent, until Stiles is laughing and pushing him away. “Dude, no, what the fuck? Stop, oh my god!”

Once Derek is sufficiently satisfied that Stiles no longer “smells like ass,” they put on an episode of Star Trek, the one where Mr. Scott is accused of murdering a belly dancer on one of the pleasure planets. Ironically enough, it’s called ‘Wolf In the Fold’.

Derek casually slips his arm around Stiles after he grabs the laptop, and he feels guilty about it, but he tells himself that it’s probably just a wolf thing and completely ignores the part of his brain that says Derek’s behavior is more possessive than anything else.

—

It feels weird going back to school.

His first class back is English. With Derek’s girlfriend.

Ms. Blake approaches him before class starts, looking a little awkward, like she recognizes that Stiles has been a little short with her the last few times they saw each other, even though she doesn’t know _why._

“So, Stiles, how was the rest of your break? I feel like I saw you every time I stepped outside of my house,” she jokes.

Despite how good of an idea his brain is telling him it is, Stiles decides right then and there that he’s not gonna be an asshole.

He isn’t going to address her by the wrong name, isn’t going to break into school after hours and erase her painstakingly detailed lesson plans, won’t rearrange all of her student’s names in the grade book, won’t purposely misspell every single word in all of his assignments just to piss her off or nail her desk to the ceiling or key her stupid, little car. He could do it, and probably even get away with it, but she doesn’t deserve that.

It would probably take more effort than it’s worth anyway.

After a pause, Stiles gives her a lopsided smile and says, “It was pretty alright, Ms. B., how was yours?”

So he listens to her chatter about going to visit her family and decorating gingerbread houses with her nieces, and he doesn’t react when she mentions trying to get Derek to go with her and him declining—which she didn’t take to heart because, “Well, you probably know how he gets,” fond eye roll.

Stiles looks at his desk and laughs quietly. “Yeah. I know how he gets.”

The bell rings and she leaves to do teacher things, and Stiles rests his head on the table and wallows in how despicable a human being he is.

It’s just – Why did she have to be so _nice?_ He doesn’t want to like her. He wishes he couldn’t see why Derek likes her.

Scott catches him staring at her later while she’s helping Greenberg with something, and reaches over to squeeze his knee.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Scott whispers, patting his leg. “You’re prettier.”

Stiles stares at him for a minute and then breaks into a wide grin.

At least he’s got that going for him.

-

It feels like he spends the first week back at school waiting for the other shoe to drop. The other shoe being the next attack on Beacon Hills. It’s not that much of a leap; the supernatural creatures around here always seem to decide to launch their assaults right about the time school starts up. It’s like they know they have a better chance at breaking everyone down if they’re all exhausted from dealing with homework and tests and shit, which is just evil genius on the bad guys’ part, really.

It’s good, though, being back around his friends, not having to feel guilty about not seeing them all the time ‘cause look: mandatory eight hour hangout sesh every day. Derek still comes over most nights and has dinner with him and his father, if he’s there, and they watch a few episodes of Star Trek interspersed by the occasional movie.

Stiles would like to say that his affection for the werewolf has waned, but alas, that would not be true. He’s just gotten a lot better at faking it.

Things come to a head near the end of February, though.

After a particularly trying lacrosse practice, Stiles goes home and passes out. When he wakes, he realizes Derek hasn’t texted in a few hours, which, at this point, is odd, and Stiles starts to worry that maybe while he was sleeping that hypothetical Big Bad he’s been worrying so much about finally made its’ way into town and murdered Derek. And no, he isn’t being clingy and weird. He’s just worried for his buddy, okay.

So he calls him.

The phone rings and rings, and Stiles paces all over his room until finally, someone picks up.

It just isn’t Derek.

_“Derek’s phone, Jennifer speaking.”_

His chest twists painfully. “Uh.”

_“Hello?”_

And Stiles does the mature thing. He panics and hangs up.

-

Derek finds him later that evening sitting in the living room. “Hey.” It’s cautious, like Stiles is something for him to be wary of, like Stiles isn’t just some snot-nosed kid that latched on to him at the first opportunity and refused to let go.

“How the hell did you get in here? Climb through the window?” Stiles snorts, flips through the channels on the tv idly, more for something to do with his hands than anything else.

Derek frowns at the weird tone. “Look, about what happened earlier, I—”

“Nah, you don’t have to explain yourself to me, bro.”

“’Bro,’” Derek repeats flatly.

“Yeah, man. It’s a friendly term of endearment. Like buddy, pal, chief.”

“Stiles.”

“What’s up, dude?”

Derek steps directly into his line of sight, but Stiles still manages to avert his eyes. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Stiles looks at him, finally, and smiles brightly, fakely. “Happy?”

“Why are you acting like this?” Derek is getting irritated now, and that’s good, it’s good, Stiles can’t handle it when he’s gentle, needs that anger to remind him why he’s doing this.

“Like what?”

“Like we’re…”

“Like we’re what, Derek? Friends?”

Derek looks like he wants to shake him. _“Yes.”_

Hours. Derek hadn’t texted him for hours because he was with Blake, and all Stiles can think of is what they’d been doing, what they’d been talking about, whether they’d been talking at all. His brain twists it, shows him snapshots of them laughing, talking about the stupid kid that trails Derek like a lost puppy, that wants it so bad, he keeps coming back for more even when Derek shoots him down, over and over.

Stiles flips the television off and throws the remote to the side. “Because that’s what we _are._ We’re friends. So no, you don’t have to explain to me why your girlfriend answered your fucking phone, and no, you don’t have to come over here looking like a kicked puppy, trying to apologize for something that’s not even any of my business.”

“Yes, it is,” Derek says, frustrated.

Stiles gets to his feet, crosses the room, trying to get away from him, this fucking _guy_ who has to be the most confusing person on the planet. “How the fuck is it my business who answers your phone?” he snarls.

Derek looks like he wants to move closer, but he sticks to his corner and that is also good because Stiles can’t think right when he’s near. “Because it’s _my_ business, and—”

“And _what?”_

A key turns in the lock on the front door, and John steps inside looking exhausted.

“Hey, kids. Thought I heard yelling,” he says, amused. “Swear, you two bicker like an old married couple.”

“Not even close,” Stiles mutters. Derek just looks at him.

“You joining us for dinner tonight?” John asks, hanging his jacket.

“He’s not,” Stiles interjects flatly.

Derek glares. “I _wasn’t_ , but it looks like my schedule’s cleared up for the evening.” He smiles at John, wide and vicious. “What are we having?”

-

Stiles stabs a fork through a leaf of spinach and shoves it into his mouth, chewing violently. Derek stares back at him, chewing on his chicken every bit as aggressive.

It’s minute three of the glare-off, and neither is faltering.

John’s gaze flickers between them. “So, uh, Derek. How are things?”

“Great.”

“Oh, are they?” Stiles asks mockingly.

Derek lifts his eyebrows, jaw sticking out, taunting. _“Yeah.”_

Stiles kicks him underneath the table, and Derek kicks him back. Stiles’ mind is so clouded with anger he might forget that his father is there with them.

“You motherfucker. I swear to god, I’m going to dust all of your fucking underwear with wolfsbane,” Stiles hisses, clutching his injured shin.

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m fine not wearing any, then, isn’t it,” Derek shoots back.

Stiles’ mouth works soundlessly.

The sheriff sets his fork down, and says a silent prayer. There are just some aspects of his son’s life, and his son’s…Derek, that he just never needed to know.

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” he says. “Derek, you want one?”

Derek looks away from Stiles for the first time all evening, and nods to the sheriff, looking appropriately abashed. “Uhh, yes. Please. Thank you.”

John grabs two out of the fridge and pops the tops off, sets the spare in front of Derek before sitting back down.

“What, you’re not gonna offer me one? Me, you’re only son?” Stiles asks, seemingly over the bit of news they’d all just learned.

“Kid, if I get any more lenient with you and alcohol, it’ll be me they put in jail next,” John says drily.

Stiles glowers at Derek like it’s all his fault and tears off a chunk of bread with his teeth. Derek smirks back at him.

John sighs and settles in for a night filled with uncomfortable amounts of tension.

-

“No, Dad, c’mon. I’ll do the dishes,” Stiles protests when his father tries to grab his plate and take it to the sink.

“I’ll help,” Derek says, standing.

“You can help by leaving,” Stiles hisses. Derek shoots him an indiscernible look.

“I’d appreciate that, son,” John says loudly, clapping a hand down on Derek’s shoulder. He gives Stiles a pointed look, mouthing, “Be nice.” before making his way to the living room.

Stiles skulks to the sink, Derek shadowing him like the creepy asshole he is.

“I’ll wash; you dry,” Stiles mutters, shoving a dish towel at Derek.

Derek huffs lightly. “Yeah, okay.” Stiles plugs up the sink and leans against the counter, watching it fill.

Derek reaches out as if to touch him, and Stiles jerks away.

“Don’t. Let’s just—” he sighs, “Do the fucking dishes and get this night over with.”

He feels Derek’s eyes on him like a physical weight, but he ignores it. Just like he ignores their fingers brushing whenever he hands Derek a dish.

-

“Alright, so I guess I’ll be going then,” Derek says, later when they’ve finished and Stiles has ignored him for another solid half hour while he “reviewed” his homework.

“Cool. Bye,” Stiles replies. He drums his fingers on the table.

Derek hovers by the front door, and Stiles can feel him staring again, but he doesn’t look up. Doesn’t want to.

Okay, he really wants to, but he’s not going to. Let it not be said that Stiles has no self-control.

Derek huffs, probably rolling his eyes, and grabs his jacket. “I’ll see you later, Sheriff.”

“Night, son.”

There’s a moment of heavy silence after Derek’s departure.

“Why are you treating that poor boy like that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, getting to his feet.

“Kid—”

“No, Dad, really. I don’t want to talk about it so can we please just. Drop it.” He looks at his father beseechingly. “Please.”

John looks at him, gaze serious and thoughtful, and nods slowly. “Yeah, okay, kid.”

“Great,” Stiles says cheerfully, taking the loveseat. “What are we watching?”

John shakes his head and fills him in on what he’d missed on this week’s episode of Elementary.

-

Derek is in his room, staring out his window, when he finally goes upstairs. He was kind of expecting it, which is why he’d waited until nearly one in the morning to wake his dad and send him off to bed.

Stiles closes the door and crosses his arms over his chest.

Derek tenses, his shoulders going unnaturally straight. “Do you want me to stay away?”

Stiles’ arms fall, the last of his anger falling away with them. He’d expected arguing, maybe even more yelling, not…this. This quiet resignation.

“What?”

Derek turns then. “Do you want me to stay away from you?” he asks.

Stiles looks at him warily. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Gee, I don’t know, _Stiles,_ ” he says sarcastically, “Maybe because all night, you’ve been acting like you can’t stand me, can’t stand to be in the same room as me. Fuck, you straight out refused to pass me the salad.” Stiles winces. He had done that, hadn’t he. “You made your fucking _dad_ do it. I was literally sitting right across from you. And then you wouldn’t even let me touch you—”

“You shouldn’t _need_ to,” Stiles says. Yells, maybe. “I shouldn’t,” he falters. “I shouldn’t want you to.” It’s much quieter.

“So, what. You decided we can’t even be friends, now?” Derek asks bitterly.

“I don’t _not_ want to be friends, Derek, but I honestly don’t think I can handle it. I’ve tried it every way: I gave you space, took space, tried seeing you as nothing more than a friend, tried talking myself into letting it alone and letting you be happy with Blake, but.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work. I think I messed it up.”

Derek looks angry. “You didn’t—”

“You didn’t want me,” Stiles speaks over him. “You were perfectly happy as friends and happy with Blake and I forced my feelings on you and now everything’s all fucked up.”

“You don’t know that—”

“That you didn’t want me?” Stiles crooks a smile at him. “You said ‘no’, remember?” Derek’s expression goes pinched. “I asked you on a date and you said ‘no.’ And you said ‘no’ when I tried to kiss you the first time and you said ‘no’ we can’t be together, and I—” Stiles clenches his jaw.

“And what,” Derek asks harshly. “You forced me?” Stiles looks at the ground, ashamed because that’s exactly what he’d done; he’d forced himself onto Derek. “You forced me to kiss you back and to spend Christmas with you and use mistletoe as the flimsiest excuse in the fucking world just so I could kiss you again? Did you force me to come back, too, Stiles? Every night when I should’ve been with Jennifer and I was with you instead, did you make me do that? Did you force me to come here tonight? We had plans. Do you even know how many times I’ve cancelled on her just so I could see your stupid face?”

Stiles refuses to hear what he’s saying. “You said I was your best friend, and I couldn’t—” he breaks off with a bitter laugh, drags his hands through his hair and tugs at the sides. He probably looks crazy. He feels crazy. _“Still_ can’t just see you that way. Not only. This is my fault.” He turns and tries to leave, sleep on the couch maybe, but Derek is there, pulling him back around, forcing Stiles to look him in the eye.

“Do you want me to stay away?” Derek repeats for the third time.

“No,” Stiles says simply. There’s no point in lying about it. “But I think I need you to.” He stares at his feet so he doesn’t have to see the look on Derek’s face when that hits.

By the time he looks up again, Derek is gone.

—

“Stiles?”

He spins around in his chair. “Oh, shit. Allison, hi.”

“I thought we could hang out.” She notices his hesitation and adopts a familiar kicked puppy expression. Scott really needs to stop teaching people how to do that. “C’mon, we haven’t spent nearly enough time together lately. Please?” Sad eyes. Those fucking sad eyes. _Why?_

“Let me guess, Scott and Isaac are working, Boyd’s busy and Lydia and Jackson aren’t answering the phone.”

She gives him a sheepish smile. “But I really have been meaning to hang out with you.”

Stiles sighs and peels himself off his seat, glad to be wearing pants for once. “Sure, what do you wanna do?”

“I was thinking we could try that new sushi place that opened up on Main?”

“Sounds good, let me just get dressed.”

“Maybe a shower, too,” Allison teases. She kicks off her shoes and hops on the bed, looking around his room like she hasn’t been in here a hundred times before. Although, maybe because nearly every single time she’d previously been here had been under dire, life-or-death circumstances, she hadn’t been too preoccupied with admiring the décor.

Stiles digs through his dresser, looking for something nice to wear. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to hang out with me. You either accept me, man-stink and all, or get lost and let me get back to my doing nothing.”

She lets out a large breath and sprawls across his covers. “Fine. I accept you and your man-stink.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Stiles says approvingly. He pops out of his closet, holding out the new sweater Lydia had bought him for Christmas.

“Will this suffice?”

Allison glances up from one of his old comic books, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“For. Y’know, for dinner,” Stiles says, shaking the sweater for her to look at.

“Oh,” she says, sounding startled. “You know I don’t care what you wear, right? I mean, if it wasn’t completely obvious that you’ve been in those clothes for the past three days, I’d tell you ‘let’s go right now.’”

Stiles blinks at her rapidly, not quite comprehending the miracle that is coming out of her mouth.

“Just grab a t-shirt or something,” she says, turning back to his tattered issue of Deadpool Kills the Marvel Universe with a shrug.

Stiles’ eyes are wide as saucers. “Will you be my new mommy?”

“Lydia’s that mean, huh,” she says, sounding amused.

_“Yes.”_

She laughs, dimples flashing, and Stiles decides that he will take a shower for Allison, because Allison is wonderful.

-

Allison is awful and has the worst ideas.

“Mother fucking, son of a—” Stiles slouches down in his seat.

Allison startles, the piece of sashimi she’d finally managed to pick up with her chopsticks falling on the table. She sighs resignedly and picks it up with a napkin, adding it to her growing pile of failed attempts. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened, why would you think something happened, God, Allison, you’re being weird.”

She looks at him funny. “Right.”

“Stiles! Allison!” Stiles jumps in his seat and knocks his knee on the underside of the table. “I’m just seeing you all over the place,” Blake says to him with a grin. “I thought I was free of you for another day, at least,” she says jokingly.

Stiles forces a smile. “If only that were the case,” he says through gritted teeth. Allison gives him a sharp look from across the table.

Blake doesn’t hear him, or if she does, she doesn’t react. She turns, still smiling. “Derek, it’s Stiles. Aren’t you going to say hi?”

Derek moves forward stiffly. “Hey.”

Stiles nods and looks down at his plate. “Hey.”

He can feel Allison staring at the both of them. “Hi, Derek,” she says loudly. “Good to see you. Haven’t seen you since Christmas.”

Stiles grimaces. He has a feeling that if he could actually look at Derek right now, he’d be doing the same.

“Oh, so that’s where you spent Christmas,” Blake says teasingly.

“Yeah, we all went to Scott’s,” Allison says, gesturing to the three of them.

Stiles glances up. Blake looks confused.

“We’d better get to our table,” Derek says. Blake nods and smiles a farewell to them both. “Tell Chris I said ‘hi,’” he says to Allison. She smiles and tells him she will. Derek mutters a quiet, “See you,” to Stiles, arm brushing against him as he passes.

He tries not to look at them for the rest of the night, but fuck, it’s hard not to. It’s like his eyes have been magnetized to Derek or something. No matter how much he tries to tell himself to cut that shit out, stop looking, his attention is always drawn back. He almost asks their waiter to move them, just a few tables away so that Derek and Blake aren’t in his line of sight. He refrains, though, because that would be too obvious, and according to Scott and Lydia, Allison is the only one who hasn’t figured out/heard about his thing with Derek. Why, he doesn’t know. Stiles thinks that maybe it’s because she likes Ms. Blake so much, and no one wants to burst her happy, little bubble.

Not that she should like Blake any less for Stiles having feelings for Derek. It’s not Blake’s fault Stiles is a dumbass.

He and Allison catch up, mostly talking about Scott and Isaac and Boyd and how weird it is that Jackson and Lydia have managed to go the entire week without trying to murder each other, and Stiles actually manages to keep his eyes off Derek for a few minutes. But when he looks back, Blake is reaching across the table to grab Derek’s hand. Derek’s eyes flicker to his.

Eight days. Eight days and it takes little more than a fucking glance for it to all come flooding back.

Stiles excuses himself. Allison nods distractedly, brows furrowed and tongue sticking out as she concentrates on grabbing a particularly thick piece of sushi with her chopsticks. Stiles had tried showing her, but she would not be taught, saying that seeing as she was the only one at this table that can carve and string a bow, and not to mention, make their own arrows, she’d be able to figure it out herself, thanks.

He gets up, pats her on the shoulder, and just to be a dick, says, “You know, you can always ask for a fork.” The sushi plops back onto her plate.

“Dammit, Stiles, I nearly had it,” Allison snaps. She throws her chopsticks down, picks her piece of dragon roll up and shoves it in her mouth. It is the most aggressive display of food consumption that Stiles has seen in his life.

“Or you could do that,” he says with a laugh.

“Hate you,” Allison mumbles, mouth still full.

In his peripheral, he catches sight of Derek watching them intently, and the smile falls right off his face.

“Be right back,” he mumbles. Allison flips him off. So, all around, everyone’s happy.

He goes to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, maybe give himself another pep talk, but all he can think about is Derek’s forearms in that henley and how long it’s been since he’s had a decent night’s sleep because he’d nearly gotten used to sharing. No, that’s a lie. He’d gotten used to falling asleep wrapped around Derek and waking up to those stupid beautiful eyes. His fingers clench tightly around the sink’s edge.

Someone knocks on the door.

“Occupado.”

The person on the other end is either an idiot or does not understand the meaning of the word ‘Occupied’ because two seconds later there’s another knock.

Stiles groans. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing him for being such a bad person.

More knocking, sharper this time, more insistent. Stiles is starting to get irritated. He rips off a paper towel and angrily wipes his face down, muttering that it better be a goddamn emergency.

The door handle rattles.

“Jesus fucking Christ, _alright_ —”

He gets the door open a crack and the Neanderthal on the other side pushes it in, and him back with it, shutting it behind them.

He’s scared now, because either he’s about to get the crap kicked out of him for monopolizing the lone bathroom in this fine establishment, or he’s about to be forced to watch this guy use the facilities either way, not a good time for Stiles.

“Dude, what the-”

He barely has time to register who it is before Derek’s hands are on him, pulling him in, and it might be horrible of him, but Stiles doesn’t even consider pushing him off, not for a second. He tangles his fingers in Derek’s hair and kisses Derek back hungrily. Something that had been off-balance and aching inside of him settles instantly. _Fuck,_ he needed this. How the fuck did he ever kid himself into thinking that if he just tried to cut Derek off completely, it would make how much he wanted him go away?

“Stop thinking,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles makes an angry sound and bites down on Derek’s lip hard, trying to convey that this is all his stupid fault, with his eyes and his smile and those stupid bunny teeth, and _God,_ he makes Stiles so fucking frustrated, but damn if he wants to stay away from him. Derek groans into the kiss, nipping Stiles back, though far more gently, hands slipping from his waist to the back of his knees and lifting Stiles onto the sink, arching into him, and fuck, he’s hard. Stiles is right there with him, dick straining in his pants.

Derek pulls back, panting. “Don’t shut me out, okay,” he says, lips brushing against Stiles’. “I can’t— just don’t shut me out.”

Stiles nods, eyes wide. He’s never heard Derek sound so…vulnerable.

“I won’t,” he says, “C’mere. Missed you.” He pulls Derek back into him, but it’s less heated now, slower, like they’ve got all the time in the world. Stiles likes that idea, even if it’s just another delusion.

He forgets where they are, forgets who Derek came here with and that it wasn’t with him.

And then someone knocks and Derek tears his mouth away and straightens his clothes and leaves. But not before Stiles sees his face. 

He looks about as broken as he did the day they found Erica.

-

Even before she found out what her parents’ main occupation was, Allison had been taught to always be aware of her surroundings, look for anomalies and the like. So she pretty much immediately notices when Derek gets out of his seat approximately thirty seconds after Stiles and heads in the same direction, sees him disappear down the hallway that leads to the bathrooms.

Ms. Blake is happily oblivious, tapping away on her phone.

When Derek comes out, he’s bright pink and he looks…destroyed. He looks like he wants to tear something in half, to run straight out of the restaurant and kick someone’s ass. He almost does leave, but turns around at the last second, seeming to remember that he’s supposed to be on a date.

Derek schools his expression, changes it into something vaguely nauseous and stops in front of the table. Allison pretends she’s fixated on the dessert menu, but in reality, is pretty shamelessly eavesdropping.

“Sorry to do this, but I think I need to go home. I don’t feel too great.”

Blake’s bullshit-ometer is, apparently, not so great. In her defense, though, Derek looks really convincing.

“Oh, no, do you think it’s food poisoning?” Blake reaches up to touch his cheek. “You’re all flushed,” she says concernedly. “Maybe you should go to the doctor’s.”

Derek grabs her hand and gently places it back on the table. “No, probably just a bug or something, sorry. I should go.”

“Do you want me to give you a ride—”

“No,” Derek says quickly. “I’m fine; I’ll text you when I get home, okay?”

“Okay. I hope you feel better.” Ms. Blake stands up and leans in as if to give him a kiss, but Derek jerks away from her. Hurt flashes across her expression.

“Sorry. I just don’t want to get you sick. I might be contagious.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a few bills. “Please, stay. Finish eating. I’ll talk to you soon?” She nods and Derek gives her an excruciating looking smile and leaves.

Allison flags down the waitress and asks for the check.

-

Stiles reappears soon after Derek leaves.

He stands at the edge of the table and pulls out his wallet. “Hey can we go? I think I caught a stomach bug maybe.”

Allison waves him off, gesturing to the receipt to show him she’s already paid and gotten his food boxed up. “Yeah, I think Derek’s got the same one.”

Stiles’ gaze snaps to her.

“Let’s go.” Allison signs the check and leaves a generous tip for their waitress. Mostly because of the sheer amount of sushi she’d wasted due to her lack of skill with chopsticks.

She catches Blake looking at Stiles thoughtfully as they leave, wheels turning.

“Where are we going?”

Allison shushes him and turns the radio on. She makes a quick stop at a bakery he’s never been to and comes back with something that smells heavenly. His appetite reappears with a vengeance. Allison drives them out to a mostly empty lot and sets a blanket on the trunk where they lie against the back window and eat their pie, apple with a perfect crumbly crust, and look up at the stars.

Half of it’s gone before either of them speak.

“You know,” Allison says, “when I started falling for Isaac, I felt so guilty. I didn’t think it was gonna work because part of me is always going to love Scott, too.”

“Except then Isaac turned out to also be majorly into Scott, and the three of you are just living the dream now, aren’t you,” Stiles says drily.

Allison grins happily. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Stiles sags forward, swinging his feet, watching them knock into the license plate of Allison’s car.

She sits up and bumps their shoulders. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I’m just trying to give you some hope. Sometimes, things work out the way they should, Stiles.”

“But not me and Derek. We don’t—” he says. “We’re not— We don’t _match_. Sure, he’s an asshole and I’m- moderately less of an asshole, and we get along fine, but.” He shakes his head. “He doesn’t love me, Allie. Not like that. And he’s with,” he lifts a hand, drops it, “fucking beautiful-ass Ms. Blake. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

“I don’t think you have to.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and groans, falling back against the windshield. “Right.”

“I’m serious, Stiles. I saw the way he looked at you and the way he looked at Ms. Blake, and they were two completely different things. I know you think that Derek isn’t in love with you, but I don’t think that’s true.”

Stiles doesn’t believe that. He believes that _Allison_ believes that, but no. Derek isn’t in love with him, however he feels. And Stiles can admit to himself now that Derek does feel _something_ for him, that it’s not just pity.

It’s just not what Stiles wishes it was.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Als,” he says with a small smile.

She sighs, like she knows she hasn’t really gotten through to him, but gives him a hug nonetheless.

“It’ll be okay, Stiles.”

He nods against her shoulder. “Yeah. Hope so.”

-

It’s Boyd that tells him that Derek is gone, expression as tentative as Stiles has ever seen it. Jackson and Isaac flank him like they’re afraid Stiles is going to…what? Lash out? What can he do to them, weak and human as he is? What can he do, but nod and say okay?

He goes to Derek’s apartment, and it’s as empty as it ever is, what with his sparse décor. But the key Derek had given him still works and the electricity’s on, and that has to mean something, right? Derek wouldn’t have just left all his shit behind if he was leaving for good. Right?

He stays there for a while, watching the front door, sure that Derek will come home any minute, now. Any minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain's Log Sept. 23rd 6:25 A.M. I keep feeling the need to add emoticons to the story while I'm writing so you can better understand how everyone is feeling. You should thank your lucky stars I am refraining


	8. But I’ve been living on the crumbs of your love (and I’m starving now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy one year anniversary of me not updating lmao ♥ (well, it was the anniversary like a month ago) (don’t look at the date I first published don’t do it to urself). This one’s for Bec, who obviously didn’t know what she was getting into when she started talking to me. Hi, have you met me? I’m awful
> 
> I hope you all like this chapter though. I seriously love your guys' comments, I live for them, esp. the ones I got recently, they were so fucking sweet, I decided I had to finish at least this chapter T-T BUT I will def reply to all of them as soon as I finish this thing (dont hate me lmao)
> 
> I'ma crash tf out now I will check this POS over when I have time and I remain hopeful *fingers crossed* that I'll have the last chapter up soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Vance Joy song ‘From Afar’  
>  _And I always knew that I would love you from afar_

Derek doesn’t come back.

Stiles deals with it as well as can be expected. Except for how he doesn’t, at all. On the surface, sure, he’s fine. He’s going to school, doing his homework, functioning like a reasonably normal human being. And then he goes to Derek’s to sit on his crappy little couch and wonder and wait.

He and that couch go through the stages of grief together. Kind of. They work through denial (“He probably just stepped out for a quick fur trim and got lost or something.” Stiles nods to himself, “totally plausible.”); anger (“That stupid dick. How dare he? He tells me not to shut him out and then he up and fucking leaves? Why did he have to be such an emotionally stunted piece of _shit._ ”); bargaining (“If he’d just come back and talk to me. Fuck, if he’d just _call—”_ ); depression (“Shit, I bet he’s dead. I bet he died. He probably went out for a wolfy run and got hit by a fucking semi.” And then, “He _better_ be dead, that motherfucker, or I swear to Werewolf _JEsus_ —”).

This is obviously where he and the couch had gotten stuck in the Grieving Process  because one second he was being all sad and shit, like _he was supposed to_ , and then somewhere along the way they’d circled back to anger and decided to stay there indefinitely.

He gets away with it for a few days, hanging around the apartment, but then Scott finds out and makes a big deal of it, tells him it’s not healthy, tells him he’s making his dad and Melissa worry, says he just needs to let it go, and when logic fails to get through to him, he all but throws Stiles over his shoulder and takes him home.

They get into it. Not the worst fight they’ve had in their twelve-plus years of friendship, but it’s up there. They’re parked in front of the Sheriff’s house in Melissa’s tiny-ass car at one o’clock in the morning and Stiles is yelling at Scott just to focus on something other than the real issue here. Yelling about Scott not being able to mind his fucking business and how that’s pretty much the sole reason they end up in mortal peril all the time, yells until Scott finally snaps back that if Stiles weren’t such a hopeless _idiot_ , they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place and he wouldn’t have to worry so much about him and his dumbass life decisions, like getting hung up on someone as messed up as _Derek –_

Which is the exact subject Stiles was trying to _avoid_ , goddammit, but Scott has to be denser than a black hole and fuck up his play-pretend, doesn’t he? (Because yes, as much as Stiles is constantly thinking about Derek and his whereabouts, he has been purposely avoiding the Why. Why he left, why he felt the need to string Stiles along for so long, why he’s such a humongous prick, etc. It’s too… fresh.)

And Scott keeps going! On and on about how Derek fucked everything up and how Derek was probably playing him the whole time, how Derek was never actually invested like Stiles was and obviously still _is_ and how if he _had_ been then he would’ve dumped Blake instead of going back and forth between them, before finally just fucking leaving, so _clearly,_ Stiles hadn’t meant as much to Derek as he’d meant to _Stiles_ —

He snaps. But it’s like a controlled snap because instead of punching Scott in his stupid crooked jaw like he _really wants to_ , he punches the dashboard and almost breaks his hand. Which is really awesome because then he has to sit there in angry, uncomfortable silence while Scott holds his hand and drains his pain and there’s nothing to distract him from replaying everything over and over in his head, from his brain telling him that Scott’s right. He’s right! Derek didn’t even _mention_ leaving Blake, not once; it wasn’t even an _issue_ for him, and, it’s probably because he knew Stiles would always be right there, waiting for him like the pathetic little moron he is-

He leaves as soon as the ache is manageable, jerking his hand out of Scott’s gross warm one and grumbling an insincere-sounding, “thanks.” as he slams Melissa’s car door closed behind him. Scott sticks his head out as Stiles is manhandling the front door open and says, “Yeah, you’re _welcome_ , asshole,” loudly before peeling out.

Stiles runs out to the street to flip him off purely out of spite. At this point, it doesn’t matter that Scott probably can’t see or hear him; it makes him feel better just on the off-chance that Scott will glance up and see his rude hand gestures in the rearview mirror, to scream ‘fuck you’ at his taillights on the off-chance his werewolf hearing will pick it up.

By the time he gets inside, the sheriff is waiting in the living room with some case files and a look of disapproval. Stiles mumbles a quiet ‘sorry.’ and trudges upstairs. (He is not sorry. It was worth it.)

It’s awkward as hell, though, going outside in the morning to take himself to school only to see Scott and Isaac waiting for him because, right, Scott drove Stiles home last night. Meanwhile poor Roscoe sits lonely and cold— _purposeless,_ across town.

“Morning,” Isaac says.

Stiles ignores him and glares at Scott.

After that, Isaac just kind of gives Scott an alarmed smile and says, “ _O-_ kay,” the way one says, _this is incredibly awkward, why didn’t you warn me or leave me at home; I would’ve happily walked,_ and doesn’t attempt to break the silence again _._

Stiles hops out of the car before it’s come to a complete stop, and Scott is out, following him almost as quickly.

“What, you’re not gonna say ‘thank you?’”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, clipped and short, _mean_. It’s even less sincere than the one he’d given the night before and Scott kind of looks like he’s been punched in the gut. Isaac curls a hand around Scott’s arm and stares hard at Stiles, but says nothing, though it looks as though he’d like to.

It pisses Stiles off because he knows that under normal circumstances, Isaac wouldn’t’ve held back, wouldn’t be consoling Scott and murmuring that ‘You know he doesn’t really mean it.’ Wouldn’t be treating him like some kind of wounded animal.

Stiles speeds up to walk ahead of them and they let him, keeping their distance even though they’re all headed toward the same class.

-

Lydia is gracious enough to give him a ride to his jeep after school.

—

It’s tense between them those next few days, him and Scott. Allison’s the one who steps in and puts an end to it. She comes and finds him in the library (where he’s taken to eating lunch rather than sitting at the same table as _SCOTT)_ , sits across from him, and _stares into his soul_ until he says, _“Fuck,_ man, alright! I’ll talk to him!”

She smiles, pleased, her evil masked to the untrained eye by dimples and floral prints, and leaves him to finish staring at his meal in peace. Their exchange had lasted five minutes. She hadn’t said a single word.

Stiles manages to avoid Scott the rest of the day, but after school—and after a wave and a vaguely threatening smile from Allison—he steels himself and heads over to the McCall’s. He lets himself in and trudges up the stairs to Scott’s room where Scott himself is curled up on the bed and Isaac is stroking his hair, trying to coax Scott out of his little werewolf ball of sadness.

Stiles takes in this scene for only a brief moment before marching over, pushing Isaac off the bed _(“hey!”)_ , lying on top of Scott and grumbling an apology he hadn’t really _intended_ on meaning when he’d arrived, but now kind of means because Scott is warm and comfortable and sad. Also, a little smelly, but Stiles is willing to overlook this because he’s sad, too, and he needs his best friend, misses him, misses when things were simple, misses having a five-year plan and knowing exactly what he wanted to do with his life, _misses_ _Derek._

And that’s what it boils down to, really. He can deal with the werewolves and the monsters and the magic, he can deal with the lack of simplicity in his life that came with the blissful ignorance of being Human, plain and simple; he can deal with not knowing what the fuck he’s going to do after graduation, but take away Derek on top of all that?

Take that away- and what does he have left?

“You have me, buddy,” Scott says, and fuck, Stiles doesn’t even know when his internal monologue of despair became an _out_ ward one.

God, he’s a fucking wreck.

Stiles pulls away and Scott follows, both of them sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at their feet or the ground, and Isaac is long gone, or still on the floor and just really silent; Stiles can’t be bothered to check.

“It’s only been a _week,_ Scott,” Stiles groans, head cradled in his hands. “How am I gonna do this? How am I supposed to just- forget?”

He waits for Scott’s answer, expecting him to say something along the lines of, “You’ll be okay” or the age-old adage, “Time heals all”; something like that, something bland and cliché and unhelpful. But what Scott says is worse because it’s _true_.

He sets his mouth in a sad line and says, “You won’t.”

—

He thinks about it a lot, at first. What they could’ve been, how Derek would’ve fit into his life, how much Stiles wanted it all; dinners with his dad and watching tv in the living room after, curling up together in bed when it got late and bickering, doing normal shit with their friends like going to a movie or running around the woods, going out getting drunk, occasionally defeating the powers of darkness.

He could’ve made Derek happy, he thinks. If Derek would’ve let him.

He’s not romanticizing it. He knows there would’ve been bad days, like the anniversary of the fire or of Stiles’ own mother’s death, Laura’s death, maybe even Peter’s, but Stiles would be there for him, to cheer him up, to remind him that it wasn’t his fault or to just help take his mind off of things, and he’s sure Derek would’ve done the same for him, in his own way. And they would fight a lot, of course, that’s what they _do,_ but it would always be worth it.

 _They_ could have been worth it.

It takes about a month for these thoughts to become infrequent, and another two for them to become rare. Four months and Stiles doesn’t even bat an eye when his friends casually mention his name.

After a while, everyone relaxes enough to let a few tidbits slip while he’s within earshot, which is how he hears that Derek was with Cora for a while in South America before he headed back East. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s still there and he won’t ask. He wants to.

He gets on with his life instead. Takes care of his dad, makes time for his friends and keeps up on his schoolwork.

He’s okay, if not still a little angry. Or a lot angry. At Derek, for jerking him around, for making a cheater of him, for lying about how he felt nothing for Stiles, at least romantically, and then contradicting his own words at every possible turn. For leaving.

Mostly he’s just angry with himself.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve seen it coming.

—

Things get fucked up again (no surprise there; Beacon Hills, home of the giant Death Tree; it should be on a fucking sign somewhere) and for a while there, Stiles isn’t sure they’re all gonna make it to senior year. But then Chris manages to put aside his…distaste for his daughter’s relationship with Scott and Isaac long enough to help them out and things don’t look as bleak after that.

He teaches them some strategy and how to use their individual strengths to the advantage of the pack, even Stiles. Well, he tries to with Stiles anyway. Initially, Argent had the idea that he’d teach Stiles how to use a sword. It was a Bad Idea. He’s uncoordinated as a motherfucker and getting the movements right _along_ with the footwork? No.

Argent throws the towel in on that one after Stiles nearly succeeds in decapitating both himself and Scott in one fell swoop. Dagger-throwing and archery are also a no-go, but it turns out he’s no slouch with a handgun. It’s loud and destructive and more often than not leaves a mess behind, but it’s what he’s good at. He tries not to see the irony in it. Derek would’ve probably pointed it out right away. His dad’s proud, though; takes him shooting as often as he can.

Training pays off. They start getting their asses handed to them less and less frequently, and though Stiles might not ever be the one to single-handedly take down a baddie, he still feels better about himself now that he’s no longer watching helplessly from the sidelines.

He’s making it sound more action-oriented than it actually is. In reality, there’s only been a few minor discrepancies these last few weeks.  An evil little garden gnome that had taken to eating the neighborhood cats.  A vampire that wasn’t actually into eating humans, but _had_ been pretty steadily draining the local blood bank. This, for obvious reasons, was no bueno, and so, despite her willingness to cooperate with the pack rules and how nonthreatening she’d seemed, the vamp had to go. (Hadn’t been too eager about it either. Stiles had learned the hard way to not be a smartass and bait the hungry vampire by mentioning all that healthy, human blood he had running through his veins. Don’t do it. They _will_ try and eat you, go figure.)

The vampire had been closely followed by a pack of betas searching for an Alpha—which probably wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t been hell-bent on killing off said Alpha’s old pack, i.e.: Stiles and the Crew.

The most recent, and in Stiles’ opinion, worst, was a witch that wanted to harness the power of the Nemeton (the Crazy-ass Death Tree!!) and use it for whatever nefarious reason. They’d never really figured that part out.

And of course, this witch _had_ to kidnap Stiles a week before his birthday and drag him off to the woods to make a virgin sacrifice of him, which was shitty for obvious reasons and not just because he’d been outed as the sole virgin of their little group, (Jackson had gotten all wide-eyed, looking awed, “So you and Derek really didn’t…” insert suggestive hand gesturing – _“Obviously not,”_ Stiles spat back, drenched and covered in mud.)

No, the worst of it was that the witch had played him. Posed as a transfer student, Courtney, pretended to like him and want to be his friend before she asked him to hang out, drugged him, dragged him to the woods, and tried to carve out his heart.

Scott and the puppies had gotten there in time to stop all that (well, mostly; he _does_ have a pretty cool-looking wound on his chest now that’s bound to be an even more cool-looking scar), but they did not arrive early enough to save Stiles’ last ounce of self-esteem.

He’s feeling pretty down by the time his birthday rolls around, not to mention that he’s still bruised and battered from his encounter with fucking Courtney the Teenage Witch, and he’s planning on just staying in bed because last night his dad said he’d be working late and no one’s even _mentioned_ what day it is, despite Stiles’ many subtle hints.

It’s probable that everyone had just forgotten, what with all the supernatural traffic Beacon Hills is getting lately, and he gets that, honest. He doesn’t blame them, not really.

But it still hits him hard when he wakes up in the morning and there’s not a single new text or missed call on his phone. Hell, even Scott hadn’t done his standard midnight spamming-of-the-inbox like he does every year, and that’s never happened, not even when they’re fighting. Scott’ll still text him, albeit passive-aggressively. (In those cases, he gets shit like: **still mad @ u but happy bday** , or **happy bday dick** and **i hope its awesome even tho ur not** , sans the usual overload of smiley faces and party hat emojis).

He rolls out of bed at nine, unable to sleep in despite the nighttime painkillers he’d taken the day before to soothe his aching head and the throbbing of his chest, and almost falls down the stairs when he sees everyone crowded in his kitchen, piling waffles and sausage and eggs onto plates, chattering and bickering quietly enough as they set the table and pour glasses of coffee, milk, orange juice.

Scott notices him first, frozen on the sixth step down, gaping. _“Dude,”_ he crows excitedly, “we were just about to wake you up! Happy birthday, man!” Before he can really comprehend what’s happening, Scott and Isaac are dragging him downstairs and into the kitchen and he’s being passed around, being hugged and fretted over, getting a bouquet of balloons shoved into his hands and then rushed to the seat at the head of the table where a party hat is immediately strapped onto his head.

The sheriff gets to him last, drags him out of his chair to wrap him up in a tight hug and says, “Happy birthday, kiddo,” voice constricted with pride. Stiles makes a vague sound into his shoulder, trying to keep his cool. His father pulls back and looks at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles glances away, feeling guilty. “I didn’t- I didn’t think you guys remembered,” he admits quietly.

His dad kind of puts his hands up and raises his eyebrows like it was out of his control and steps back to let Scott and Lydia take over.

Scott, who’d started panicking at the sight of his best friend’s lower lip wobbling, glares at Lydia, gesturing toward Stiles, like _see_. _SEE? Didn’t I_ say _this would happen?_

“We wanted it to be a surprise,” Lydia says slowly, looking from Scott to Stiles uncertainly.

“I told you, you should’ve at least let me text him at midnight like I usually do,” Scott hisses, getting pissy.

“Sorry, man,” Jackson says, squeezing his shoulder lightly before setting a plate piled high with food in front of him. “You know how she gets,” he says, nodding towards his better half while she huffs and flips her hair.

“And what is that supposed to mean, Mr. ‘I can’t even manage to do the _one_ thing my girlfriend asked me to do—’”

Jackson jerks his chin toward the kitchen obstinately. “I made the damn waffles, Lydia, I don’t know what else you want from me.”

“You were supposed to follow the recipe I gave you; not buy a box of mix like a lazy asshole,” Lydia snaps.

Jackson throws his hands up, “Oh, here we _fucking_ go—”

“They always like this?” Stiles hears his father mutter.

“Always,” Melissa and Chris say in tandem. John grunts, _figures,_ and Chris hands the sheriff a plate and claps him on the back.

Stiles smiles into his breakfast as Lydia and her future bride argue about some magical blueberry waffle recipe and everyone kind of rolls their eyes and goes about ignoring them as they shuffle around the kitchen, serving themselves food. One by one the table gets filled until everyone, including the Martins, are seated, and bickering and laughing, and it’s—

It’s damn near perfect.

Just one thing missing really.

He doesn’t know what his expression is doing, but it must be something alarming because it’s enough to make Boyd notice and comment. He nudges Stiles in the side with a slight frown. “You alright?”

Allison tilts her head at him. “Yeah, your face is weird and you’re being suspiciously quiet.”

“My face is always weird,” he says defensively,

Everyone’s looking at him now, curiosity quickly becoming worry.

“What’s wrong, buddy?” Scott asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“It’s the waffles, isn’t it.” Lydia looks at Jackson accusingly.

“Nah, they’re great, honest,” he says quickly before WaffleGate makes a comeback. That is one way he would rather not spend his birthday. Other items in that category involve being fucked gently with a chainsaw. “Just wondering where my presents are.”

And seriously, now that he’s brought it up, where _are_ his presents? He glances around, searching.

“You can open your presents after dinner,” Lydia says sternly as she reaches across the table for the syrup.

“But it’s my birthday!” he protests. “Dad!”

His father shrugs, pointedly looks at Lydia and turns back to his eggs. It’s all very, _don’t look at me, son, I don’t make the rules._

And goddamn, what did the five-foot-nothing little demon _do_ to scare a fully grown man, the _sheriff_ of what has got to be one of the most bloodthirsty towns in the country, into submission?

“You’re a monster,” Stiles informs Lydia.

She doesn’t seem concerned.

“You know she can’t actually kill you, right?” he stage whispers at his father, “She only predicts death; she doesn’t cause it.”

Lydia turns her head toward him slowly, eyebrow raised, and suddenly everyone is way too interested in their food.

“It’s my birthday,” Stiles reminds her.

She lets him live.

-

Chris is the only one brave enough to break Lydia’s no-presents-before-dinner rule, giving him a pistol-suppressor combo with a bow on it directly after breakfast and a proud, verging on fatherly, shoulder squeeze. Stiles lights up like a Christmas tree when his dad takes them all down to the sheriff’s department’s shooting range so he can try his new gift out. Chris brings enough for everyone to try out, and it goes terribly. Scott might be a True Alpha, but he's a terrible shot.

It’s about two when they finish up there, so they grab a quick birthday lunch and then everyone goes their separate ways for a much-needed nap before dinner. When he wakes from his nap and goes downstairs, there are more balloons, but in green and black and blue and, God bless Lydia Martin, there is definitely a bit of a Star Wars theme going on.

After his birthday dinner, which, no lie, consisted of sixteen pizzas and a fucking _bucket_ of wings split amongst ten people, he and Scott chase each other around the house with their new lightsabers, (Stiles’ is super cool and realistic, a gift from Jackson, (because “a lame nerd like you deserves an equally lame-nerd gift,” — Stiles had hugged him for an uncomfortable amount of time) while Scott’s inferior one is more of a party favor, not unlike the ones you’d find at a fair or attached to a child’s Halloween costume.

It’s fun, the most he’s had in ages, right up until Scott goes all tense out of nowhere and disappears outside. Stiles tries to go after him, but Allison distracts him, challenging him to a duel.

Scott comes back to Stiles dutifully playing dead and definitely not pouting while Allison stands above him, looking smug because she’d knocked his ass down in five seconds flat and then proceeded to gloat for the next several minutes. (Whatever, they all knew he had no talent with swords and besides, it was his birthday; wasn’t everyone supposed to let him win or some shit?)

When Allison deigns to let him up, he pulls Scott aside and asks where he’d ran off to, but Scott goes tight-lipped, says he thought he’d heard something and went to check it out, nbd.

He looks guilty, though, not quite able to meet Stiles’ eye. Boyd disappears for a little while after that, too, but comes back quickly enough that Stiles forgets all about that weirdness when his dad brings out the ice cream cake (SHAPED LIKE THE DEATH STAR) and a poorly gift-wrapped special edition Star Wars boxset. (Stiles is not a crybaby, thank you very much, Jackson, he’s just very in touch with his emotions.)

It’s a good end to a good day. It _should_ be the good end to a good day.

But as the opening crawl for A New Hope rolls across the screen and his friends settle in, expressions ranging from excited to patient to something akin to what one’s face would look like when preparing one’s self for death, Stiles finds his thoughts turning for the second time that day to He Who Must Not Be Named.

Normally, he’d stop himself, nip that shit in the bud before he lets it go too far, but tonight’s a special occasion and for a moment, he lets himself wonder.

Whether or not Derek even knows what day it is, if he’s thinking about Stiles, _if_ he thinks about Stiles at all, if he’ll try and call, if he’ll show up.

It’s a bad train of thought and one he should have never allowed himself because it brings all of that suppressed hope back to the surface. He tries his hardest to put it out of his mind.

And then midnight rolls around, marking the official end of his birthday, and his dad kicks everyone out even though he’s _“happy you kids have a long weekend,”_ but he “does _have work in the morning, you know,”_ and of course Derek never showed, but he’s still in the forefront of Stiles’ mind (where he should no longer have a place, mind you, but _there he is_ , taunting Stiles’ fragile grip on happiness with his imaginary bunny-toothed presence.)

-

It’s not a good idea— Scratch that. It’s a fucking _stupid_ idea, but that night, Stiles sneaks out of his house and heads to the woods with a bottle of something strong and the intention of getting blind-drunk. His dad would probably kill him if he knew he was out here alone, especially considering the recent increase in supernatural activity, but his fast-becoming-intoxicated self reasons that his dad doesn’t know so there’s no harm done, right? Right.

Everything is _good._ Wonderful, even. Fan-fucking-tastic. He barely even remembers why he cared about what’s-his-face in the first place. Just because he was kind of funny and just the right amount of sarcastic jerk and for some reason, actually _liked_ having Stiles around. Just because he was secretly kind and smart and as beautiful as he was damaged and _got_ Stiles. It didn’t mean they were soulmates, or whatever.

Soulmates. Ha. They could barely make it work as _friends_.

Shit, they _couldn’t!_

He starts laughing almost hysterically. It dies out too soon, leaving him with a hollow feeling in his gut.

He drinks until the feelings and his thoughts go away and he’s flat on his back in the leaves, staring at the stars. It’s nice, peaceful. He’s seventeen and magic is real and he’s alive.

After a while it - this, lying on the ground of an unfamiliar place, staring at the stars - starts reminding him of that night he got drunk and kissed Derek for the first time, and the hollow feeling comes creeping back in. He turns on his side and stares at the blurry tree line instead.

He shouldn’t have come out here. Not when he’s like this. Drinking when you’re already fucked up inside is rarely a good idea.

Sometime later, he dimly recognizes the sound of leaves crunching in the distance and catches sight of a dark shadow moving toward him. For a moment he thinks that oh good, someone’s here to kill him (and, really, it would be a mercy killing at this point), but fortunately—unfortunately; it’s a tossup—the figure takes a familiar and comforting shape.

“Scotty?” he hiccups pathetically.

His best friend takes a seat on the ground beside him, gently patting him on the head. “Hey, buddy, I got you.”

Stiles nudges Scott’s hand with his face in greeting and struggles to sit up. Scott catches on to what he’s attempting to do and helps him, which is great because there was no _way_ Stiles was gonna get there on his own.

He burrows under Scott’s arm. “How’d you know?” he sighs glumly.

He feels Scott shrug. “You’ve been holding up so well; we all figured you were finally… fine, y’know? But tonight, I guess… I just had this feeling.” Scott squeezes him tighter for a second. “I popped by your house first, and then to the, uh… uhh, apartment, and then here.”

“You’re a-” _hic,_ “You’re a good friend,” Stiles mumbles.

Scott’s tenses slightly and then sighs, air going out of him like a quickly deflating balloon. “No, I’m not. But I _am_ your best friend. I’ll always be here for you to look out for you, man. No matter what.” The way he carefully chooses his wording, makes it all seem… _significant_ somehow, but it’s cryptic and Stiles is too drunk to pick it apart at the moment. “Even when you decide it’s a good idea to sneak out of the house at 4 A.M. to get blasted in the woods where we’ve actually _witnessed_ people die,” Scott adds brightly.

Stiles nods thoughtfully, pointing with the hand he has wrapped around his bottle of booze, like,  _that is a fair point, you got me there,_ and then tries to take another drink. It’s empty. Shit.

Scott laughs at his look of utter disappointment and pokes him in the side. “Speaking of,” he asks, tone light, “what made you decide on this little after-party?” 

Stiles sighs dejectedly, eyes on the grass he's ripping up with his free hand. “What else?”

Scott’s arm tightens around him again.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles.

“About what?” Scott asks, incredulous.

“Bringing him up all the time.” It doesn’t make sense, Stiles hasn’t mentioned him in months. “You didn’t even like him.”

Scott hesitates. “I don’t- _not_ like Derek.”

Stiles snorts.

“I don’t! Sure, we didn’t get along at first, but I was really starting to—not mind him as much anymore.” Stiles pulls back to look at him judgmentally and Scott laughs. “No, but seriously. He was okay sometimes. I just. I don’t like the way he handled everything with Isaac, even if it _was_ to protect him, and then with you— Your best friend comes to you crying every other week; it’s gonna start to piss you off, you know?”

Stiles hadn’t thought about it like that.

“‘sides,” Scott says in a lighter tone. “You’re too good for that punk anyway.”

Stiles chortles. “Really not. Really, really not. Have you seen that  face?” and then in a lower voice, “Have you seen that _ass_ —?”

“Oo-kay,” Scott says, dropping his arm and pushing Stiles away from him and getting to his feet. “I think we’re done here.”

“Nooo,” Stiles whines, trying to drag Scott back down. Scott manages to stay upright easily. It’s actually pathetic how little effect Stiles weak attempts at pulling him down have.  “I was comfortable,” Stiles grumbles, clinging to Scott’s ankle.

“Yes, but think about how much _more_ comfortable you’d be in your own bed,” Scott says in the voice of someone trying to reason with a toddler.

Stiles starts to say, _you are so full of shit,_ but somehow it becomes, “You are— _so_ right. My bed probably feels awesome as _shit_ right now.”

“That’s right, buddy. Up and at ‘em,” he says, hauling Stiles to his feet.

“Ooh, hold on, no-” Stiles sits back down as his stomach turns. “Scott, my brother,” he says, “I’m not gonna lie to you; I need a minute.”

Scott sighs and plops back on the ground next to him. “So glad it’s a weekend.”

Stiles laughs at him, still holding his stomach. “Like you wouldn’t still be out here with me if it wasn’t.”

Scott smiles, dopey as ever. “True. You’re lucky I love you.”

Stiles smacks a hand to his chest. “You _love_ me?”

(The looks Scott gives him says, _obviously; what kind of idiot are you?_ And then understanding—and horror—washes over him as Stiles breaks down into tears, sobbing, “I love you, _too,”_  as if it’s brand new information. God help them, they have entered the Emotional Drunk stage.)

Scott gets him home somehow and makes sure he’s cleaned up and in warm clothes before letting him get into bed. He offers to stay over, but Stiles waves him off, telling him to go back home to Isaac.

“L’uh you, Scotty,” Stiles says, head nodding.            

Scott’s shoulders shake silently. “Love you, too, buddy. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“‘K. Call me in five minutes,” he yells.

He hears Scott laughing from somewhere outside and sighs happily. He turns on his side and falls asleep with an ease that’s eluded him for months.

-

The first thing he becomes aware of when he wakes is the headache. Or maybe the nausea. Whatever, the headache and nausea are numbers one and two. The third thing, which is more of a realization, is that his behavior, his coping mechanisms when it comes to dealing with Derek are destructive and unhealthy.

Fun? Yes, momentarily, _very_ fun. But then comes the morning and what’s he doing? Being silently judged by his father as he kneels on the bathroom floor and heaves up his _guts_.

And then! And then suffering the indignity of being _condescended to_ as his father chuckles and pats his head with an airy, “You have fun, now; I’m off to work!”

So yes, it is probably time for Stiles to reevaluate some of his life choices.

But after a nap. After a six to seven hour-long nap. (He forgets this entire train of thought before his head hits the pillow.)

-

Jackson pokes him awake, expression bored.

“What the fuck,” Stiles rasps. His throat is uncomfortably dry.

Jackson hands him a water and then aspirin, which Stiles accepts with a nod of thanks, immediately downing the water. Jackson watches him expectantly the entire time.

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

Jackson rolls his eyes and sighs. “Scott sent me. Said he got stuck with a shift at Deaton’s so I had to make sure you weren’t dead for him or something. Can I go now?”

Stiles tilts his head, eyes slitted and glittering curiously. “You’re asking me?”

Jackson gets huffy. “Whatever. I’m leaving.”

“Does this mean I outrank you?” Stiles wonders. “I mean, like, pack-wise.”

Jackson shoots him a glare, grumbles, “Your lunch is downstairs,” and jumps out of Stiles’ window.

Stiles wanders downstairs and finds a greasy brown bag with a familiar yellow, hand-written receipt stapled to the top. It’s been months since he’s had a decent burger. He nearly swoons.

He’s about three gigantic mouthfuls in when his phone goes off.

**Jackson - « _Text me if you need anything else._ »**

**Jackson - « _Again: Scott is making me do this._ »**

**Stiles - « _Sure bro. You don’t have to lie to me I know you’re offering because you love me_ »**

**Jackson - « _You’re delusional._ »**

**Stiles - « _And you’re a lovely person on the inside Jackson. I see you buddy_ »**

**Jackson - « _Suck a dick, Stilinski._ »**

**Stiles - « _Aww luv u 2 bud_ »**

**Jackson - « _Shut up_ »**

Stiles laughs gleefully around a mouthful of fries, chokes, nearly dies and starts looking around for something to drink. There’s nothing but water in the house, which, sure, it’s healthy, but.

But-

Oh, wait.

**Stiles - « _Hey where’s my soda_ »**

**Jackson - « _Go to hell._ »**

**Stiles - « _…_ »**

**Stiles - « … _so… that means….._ »**

The text bubble pops up and disappears a few times before he finally gets a response. He smirks, imagining Jackson coming up with a colorful reply and is delighted when all he gets is:

**« _Give me a minute._ »**

Stiles definitely outranks him.

-

Scott comes over later, apologizing profusely for it being so late and having to send Jackson over earlier to check on him.

Stiles waves him off, smirking. “It’s fine, man, me and Jacks had a grand old time. I even managed to talk him into staying for a couple rounds of Zombies.” And by ‘a couple rounds,’ he means they’d played for about three hours straight without once moving from the couch. (In fact, the only reason Jackson had finally left at all is that Lydia had called, yelling about something or other, and of course Stiles was the lucky ducky who got front row seats for that shit show. Jackson hung up on her about three minutes in, and Stiles stared at him in amazement. Meanwhile, Jackson looked totally unphased. He just wiggled his eyebrows, said, “Foreplay,” like that explained everything, and left.)

“Oh, thank God,” Scott says.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. “Wow, you were really concerned about that, weren’t you?”

“Well, you did make me _swear_ I’d be back first thing last night.”

“Dude, I would’ve understood if you couldn’t make it. I’m a big boy, Scott; I can take care of myself.”

Scott looks at him like he’s crazy. “Stiles, I hesitated for like two-point-five seconds and you started freaking out. And then when I said yes to calm you down, you pulled a knife out of nowhere and tried to get me to swear a Blood Oath that I would fucking be here, so forgive me if I seem a little ‘concerned.’”

Stiles holds his head in his hands, embarrassed. “Fuck, I was so drunk,” he groans.

Scott snorts. “Yeah, well, a bottle of Wild Turkey will do that to you.”

“Shit, I finished it?”

Scott starts laughing. “Yeah, you kept asking me that last night, too. Every five minutes or so you’d try to take another drink and then realize it was all gone and be like, ‘Where’d it go, man? Where’d it go?’”

Stiles laughs at Scott’s impression of him, it’s fantastic really, the way he makes his eyes get all huge and dopey and he slurs his speech, it’s great. “God, I’m an idiot,” he sighs.

“No, you’re not,” Scott says, “You were just drunk.”

“Yeah, because I’m an idiot.”

“It was your birthday; you were celebrating!” Scott says, getting offended for him.

“I really wasn’t though,” Stiles says glumly.

Scott’s shoulders droop and that guilty look crosses his face again. “I know.”

“Thanks for the burger, though, that was good thinking,” Stiles says quickly, both to change the subject and make him feel better.

Scott perks up a little. “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah, Earl’s has the best hangover food. That,  _plus_ making Jackson wait on me?” Stiles grins and claps him on the back. “Best post-birthday present ever, man.”

Scott grins widely. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

And Stiles did, he really did.

—

Sometime that night between Scott leaving, his headache making a grand reappearance, and actually passing out, he decides it’s time to stop.

Stop thinking about Derek, even occasionally, stop lowkey hoping he’ll come back or that one day he’ll turn around and Derek will be there, smiling that same smile, wearing that same dumbass leather jacket. Just _stop_.

-

The building is as tall and unassuming as ever. He’s been here so many times, it’s almost as familiar to him as his own house, or Scott’s. But it still takes Stiles thirty minutes to psych himself up enough to get the courage to leave his jeep. He fumbles to get the key in the lock and it belatedly occurs to him when the knob sticks, that someone else could be living here now or the locks could’ve been changed and they might catch him here and think he’s trying to break in and oh, god, he can’t afford to get arrested. …Again. His dad would never let him live it down. But the door swings open with a quiet groan and he’s flooded with relief that quickly becomes anxiety when he remembers where he is and why he’s there.

It’s quiet inside, empty. No one’s been here in months, it’s evident by the layer of dust that touches everything in sight. It still looks the same as it had the last time he’d been there; nothing new, nothing different.

But it _is_ different somehow. He just can’t put his finger on it.

When Stiles leaves a short while later, his key ring barely and yet somehow significantly lighter, he finally realizes what it is.

Scott was right; maybe he’ll never forget about Derek. Doesn’t mean he has to keep caring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And of course, _of course_ because that’s how things in his life work out, _because that’s just how the stupid fucking cards are laid out for him_ ; that’s when Derek comes back.

Looking back now, there were definitely signs that something was up. His friends had been acting twitchy and weird all week. (Lydia “accidentally” spilling her drink on Boyd’s shirt right when he was about to tell Stiles something that looked important;  Allison forcing him to duck down in his seat when they were stopped at that intersection on the way to the shooting range the other day because there was a “bee” …an invisible bee that got in magically through her rolled up windows, psh, right;  Scott lifting him off the ground and physically carrying him out of that new coffee shop everyone’s been talking about lately because he very suddenly realized he was “allergic” to “everything on the menu” (though, Stiles still isn’t sure he just wasn’t afraid of that rough-looking guy sitting in the corner with a heavy jacket and wild tangle of beard and a beanie that covered half his face);  or yesterday when his dad had been annoyed about him hiding something and had kept making pointed remarks until it became clear that Stiles had absolutely no idea what he was talking about).

So, yeah, in retrospect there were a lot of clues leading up to this point, but Stiles, brilliant creature that he is, fails to put them all together until it’s too late. ‘Too late’ being right about _now_ , when they’re in an abandoned office building near the warehouse district hunting down yet another vicious monster. (And, really, _why_ is there an abandoned warehouse district in this town? It’s like these people _want_ to get murdered.)

He reaches for another clip off his belt and comes up empty. “Shit,” he hisses. “I’m out.” The thing they’re after gives a deafening roar from somewhere in the building as if it both heard and approved of Stiles’ misfortune.

He knew, he _knew_ he shouldn’t have listened to Jackson when he said he looked like an idiot carrying all that “unnecessary extra ammo.” Freaking dick. Although, Stiles _had_ put about thirty bullets into the thing and it was still alive, so. Maybe Mr. Murder  Lizard had a point or something.

“Scott?” Stiles stage-whispers. “Did you hear me, bro— _oh.”_ He winces and sucks in a sharp breath as Scott is thrown head-first into the wall beside him.

“Heard you,” Scott mumbles. He sits up, blinking lazily. “Is it just me or did it all the sudden get really dark in here?”

And now is probably the time to worry, because no, it _isn’t_ really dark, it’s pretty damn well lit in here actually, but before Stiles has a chance to start full-on panicking, there’s another roar that sends him skittering back into motion. He tucks his gun into the waist of his jeans, grabs Scott and books it.

Scott is leaning heavily against him, eyes dazed, as they half-limp, half-run, blood rolling down the bridge of his nose from the- (wound, gash? He doesn’t really want to call it a gash because that sounds bad and he’s trying not to freak out right now) -the _shallow cut_ on his forehead. _Shallow_. Definitely no skull showing.

“Dude, are you gonna be alright? You look kind of out of it,” Stiles comments as casually as he can, throwing his free hand in Scott’s face and waving to see if they can manage to follow along. Scott doesn’t appear to notice. He _does,_ however, come to a very abrupt stop and almost knocks them both flat on their asses in the process.

 _“Dude,”_ Stiles starts to complain, but stops when he sees the way Scott’s all tensed up, shifted ears perking like he hears someone coming.

“Is it the thing?” Stiles hisses, and really, they need another name for it. It’s just, no one could really tell them what it looked like? And it generated some kind of magical energy that made camera footage fizzle out of focus whenever it actually got picked up on surveillance? And since the only clues they had to go on were the giant hole in the side of the neighborhood market and that its’ life mission seemed to be robbing the local supermarkets/gas stations of all of their Ding Dongs (and killing the odd hobo/salesclerk that had the misfortune of getting in its’ way), they were having a little bit of trouble figuring out what the fuck it was.

He squints into the darkness behind them, trying to catch a glimpse of the nightmarish creature they’ve been tracking all week, and thankfully, not succeeding in this endeavor. They didn’t know much about it, just that it was big, nocturnal, and stupid, and also that what it lacked in intelligence, it more than made up for in strength and tenacity.

Scott goes weak at the knees. “Oh, thank God.”

Stiles laughs then, relieved, because if it _was_ the thing, he’s pretty sure Scott wouldn’t be that happy about it. It’s probably Argent, finally coming in with backup and, hopefully, one of Deaton’s magical solutions to their problem. “Thank God later, dude, we need to get out of here.” He tightens his grip around Scott’s waist and tugs him along at a brisk pace.

Scott’s head whips back and forth, searching around, but for what, Stiles isn’t sure. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Scott, buddy, can it maybe wait until we’re not running for our lives?” Stiles pants. “Limping? Slowly hobbling for our lives,” he says, correcting himself.

“Uhh, no, actually it can’t.” Scott pulls him into a tight corner and shoves him low, motioning to keep quiet. Stiles holds his breath. Time passes, and Stiles thinks that maybe Scott had it wrong and the thing that was after them is gone, but then a shadow passes their hiding spot, too quick to be human. Scott waits a minute and then peeks his head out, head tilted in a supremely lupine manner.

Scott relaxes minutely and Stiles thinks they’re in the clear, but a loud crash sounds in the distance and Scott tenses up again. He turns back to Stiles, eyes panicked and struggling to focus.

“Is it back?” Stiles hisses. “Did it find us?”

Scott shakes his head and grasps him by the shoulders. “Look, don’t be mad, okay? Everyone wanted to tell you, but I asked them not to, so really it’s my fault; but I’m sorry, I was just looking out for you and don’t be mad,” he says quickly. Scott stares at him pleadingly, wearing that same guilty expression that’s been popping up since his birthday, and Stiles is filled with an almost nauseating sort of anxiety.

“What did you do.”

Before Scott has a chance to defend himself, a frustrated snarl comes from down the hall and the familiarity of it hits Stiles like a physical weight. He slowly turns to look at his former best friend.

“Don’t be mad. Don’t be mad,” Scott chants.

The thing comes flying down the hall and hits a wall with a force that seems to shake the entire foundation of the building.

“Would you just fucking _die_ already?” Derek shouts at it.

_Derek._

Derek who was gone, Derek who was never coming back, Derek who was supposed to be out of the picture. Hadn’t he _just_ accepted this? Like two fucking minutes ago? What the actual fuck- Just- why? Why. What did he do in his past life, did he murder a puppy? Did he lead the charge in a _genocide_ of puppies, dear God in Heaven,  _why?_

The thing springs back to its’ feet, roaring its’ little monster head off. It makes like it’s going to charge Derek again, but at the last moment seems to notice Scott and Stiles, hiding in the corner—like men—and changes its course.

Derek’s eyes widen in panic.

It comes fast, faster than Stiles would think given its sheer mass, and with Scott’s messed up leg, there’s absolutely no chance of them getting out of there in time. So Stiles does the practical thing. He closes his eyes and waits for Death’s loving embrace. Rumored loving embrace.

Yeah, this is probably gonna hurt like a bitch.

A sharp howl startles his eyes open and a heavy weight crashes into him, sends him sprawling across the hall, but doesn’t _kill_ _him_ like he was expecting.

He watches, first surprise and then rage, bubbling up in him as Derek, standing where Stiles had been moments ago, snarls in the thing’s face. It stares at him, unblinking, and then one of its’ huge arms flies out, catching the werewolf across the face. He crumples like a doll, and Stiles just crouches there, watching, numb, waiting for Derek to get back up, to move, but he’s not moving, and Stiles is frantic with it; trying not to think the worst.

It’s fucking Idiotic, but he runs at it, spitting curses, stupid, useless human fists battering against its’ thick hide ineffectually as he tries to distract it from getting any closer to Derek. A sharp burst of panic hits him in the the throat. The werewolf is too still, too small, not taking up the same space he does when he’s _present_ _,_ and his face- it’s too slack for Stiles’ liking; not angry enough, not frowning, and Stiles refuses to consider that he might never leave the ground _._

The thing tilts its’ head at Stiles, sniffing loudly, confused as to what the tiny human is attempting to do, but not wholly unwilling to allow him to continue to try. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Derek struggling to get up, and the relief that fills him nearly buckles his knees.

He hears his name being called, and Isaac is there with Jackson and Lydia, and he’s shouting something that Stiles can’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears, but he sees the glint of metal in his hands and puts two and two together. Deaton’s magic solution in bullet form. Lucky him.

Isaac tosses the clip and then he and Jackson are shifting, charging the thing _,_ providing a distraction.

He gets a shot off while the betas are tearing into it, and it does nothing, bounces off of its’ hide like the last thirty attempts.

“What the fuck, bro?” Stiles screams as the thing glances back at him, looking as mildly inconvenienced as a terrifying monster can. “I thought these were gonna kill it!”

Jackson turns toward him, irritated. “Deaton said—” Stupid.

Predictably, one of the thing’s gigantic limbs strike him in the middle, the blow knocking him clear across the room. Isaac’s eyes go wide and terrified as the thing advances on him, hands in front of his chest and laughing nervously.

“H-hey, why don’t we talk about th—” is all he gets out before it does the same to him as it had to Jackson, and fuck, fuck, fuck, now it’s turning back towards Stiles, beady, pitch black eyes reflecting off the dim light like a cat or a wolf.

Something cold and clammy wraps itself around his arm and Stiles jerks his head around with a yelp. Lydia’s at his side, pale as a sheet but determined, even with her eyes on Jackson’s limp form.

“Ogre,” she says, (and Stiles’ first thought is, well, that is oddly disappointing, it doesn’t look a _thing_ like Shrek), “Have to find a vulnerable spot; skin’s too thick,” and Stiles understands what he has to do.

“Get Scott out of here,” Stiles says to her under his breath, because Scott is still on the ground in the corner, looking like he’s barely holding on to consciousness, and Stiles might be pissed as hell, but that doesn’t mean he actually wants Scott to die. Well, he doesn’t want Scott to die a lot _._

Lydia nods and slowly backs away, edging toward Scott quietly. The ogre doesn’t even notice, still fixated on Stiles.

It stares at him with those spooky, reflective eyes, pacing back and forth as if it’s waiting for Stiles to make the first move for some reason. But he waits, waits until Lydia has Scott, waits until they’ve slowly made their way over to Isaac and Jackson’s general location. And then he pulls the Ding Dong out of his pocket, (because he’s smart and this was a _total_ brilliant move on his part, to bring it just in case they needed a distraction, little did he know his Ding Dong would save them all) and holds it up high.

 _“No.”_ It’s yelled, and there’s no use pretending he doesn’t know exactly who it came from, but he can’t pay that any attention right now.

The change in the ogre’s demeanor is pretty much instantaneous. That is to say, it goes completely ape-shit, head thrashing, drool hanging from its’ jowls, and rushes him. The first shot goes wide, he doesn’t know why when he’s usually really good at this (yeah, he does; adrenaline, Derek’s here, hands are shaking), but the second one hits the ogre right in its’ open mouth. It stumbles, but keeps coming. Stiles gets off three more shots, two more to the mouth and one in its’ beady little eye, and then ducks out of the way.

The ogre crashes into the wall Stiles had been standing in front of and doesn’t get up.

He makes sure Scott’s okay before anything else. He is; he’s lying next to Isaac on the ground, holding his hand. It would be cute if Stiles weren’t so fucking pissed at him.

“Is it dead?” Isaac asks, sounding nervous. “Please, tell me it’s dead.”

“As a doornail,” Stiles confirms, crouching in front of it and poking at its leg. “Y’know, I kinda feel bad for it,” he says thoughtfully, “Dude just wanted some Ding Dongs.”

“And murdered a few people,” Jackson says sarcastically. Lydia, holding his head in her lap, rolls her eyes at their bickering and continues cleaning the blood on his face with the corner of her shirt.

Stiles laughs, looking over his shoulder to say something smartass-y back like (seems like you two have a lot in common), but then a rough, warm hand is grabbing him by the arm and yanking him to his feet.

“What the hell were you _thinking,”_ Derek yells, and Stiles just stares.

Because it’s crazy that just this morning, he’d woken up worried about a math test, and fifteen hours later, here he is, right back where he was at the beginning of this whole werewolf mess with Scott, complete with Derek laying into him for doing something he didn’t approve of.

Like he has a right to, like after all this time, he gets to come back here and chew _Stiles_ out for being reckless when he’d just gotten himself knocked the fuck out.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Derek snarls, chest heaving, eyes blazing blue and hands too tight, too sharp around his bicep.

He jerks out of Derek’s grasp despite not particularly caring to (yeah, he hates himself) and steps back.

He finally gets a good look at Derek, a real look. He’s still wolfed out, his shirt is hanging off of him in tatters, his nose is broken and healing at a strange angle and there’s blood steadily drip, drip, dripping out of various cuts and slices across his torso, among other things, new things; the hair touching his shoulders and the beard that’s little more than a wild tangle covering his jaw, eyebrows that are just a little _too_ close together now (he _knew_ Derek tweezed, he _knew_ it), and Stiles wants to claw his own eyes out because of how unfair it is that someone in such a miserable state should look so good.

Instead he laughs. Laughs so hard, tears spring up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks. He’s laughing when Chris and his father round the corner, trailed by Allison and Boyd, (Chris shoots him a look of concern, Stiles is vaguely aware of his dad asking if he took a blow to the head) and he’s still at it when Scott finally manages to get to his feet.

Derek reaches out, eyebrows drawn up high, mouth open but turned down at the corners, and Stiles does a full-body flinch that has Derek jerking his hand back with an expression that says he wasn’t even aware of moving in the first place, and Stiles hates,  _hates,_ how easy it still is for him to read the guy’s face. 

It’s enough to sober him, cheeks flushing in humiliation and, and-

He tries to play it off with humor, laughing awkwardly as his friends, his family, stare at him with pity in their eyes and mouths curved in sympathy. “Well, this was fun guys. Great, uhm, great team work. I’m pretty beat, though, so, uh. I’m sure you guys can get this cleaned up without me, I’m gonna go home and, you know, die. Okay? Okay. Good chat.”

Scott limps after him, calling out to him. “Stiles. Stiles, wait-”

He doesn’t slow until he gets through the building’s exit, down to where all the cars are parked. He wheels around, and Scott stumbles back a step when he gets too close, too fast.

“Wait? You want me to wait? For what, Scott? What could you possibly say to me right now that would make up for this?” He’s snarling mad, nostrils flaring, fists clenched tight to keep from punching his already injured bro in the face.

Scott is quiet for one long, tense moment. “Sorry?”

That’s when it clicks for him, the weirdness with his friends, Scott making all those strange comments. Scott’s words earlier that he hadn’t really had time to process. _Everyone wanted to tell you._

Stiles laughs once without any real humor, head falling forward. “Scott, buddy, pal; my dearest friend in the entire universe.” He puts a hand down on Scott’s shoulder and squeezes it with a smile. Scott’s answering smile is small and hopeful. “You’re dead to me.”

“But- but- _I_ didn’t call him!” Scott sputters.

Stiles gives him a withering look and gets in his car. He feels eyes on him as he’s pulling away and there’s Derek, standing in the entrance, his father next to him with a sturdy hand on his shoulder. Stiles slams on the gas and doesn’t slow until he’s halfway home.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :) I have some things that are finished and some things that are not, feel free to check ‘em out.
> 
> Update: I've finally started posting for [Derek's pov.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2322674) U punks better like it I worked real hard lol jk I was drunk the entire time I was writing  
> Update again: I've not abandoned anything I just suck at life but when I get motivated I'm going to edit and then start posting the rest :) 
> 
> Comments make me happy!
> 
> [tumblr](http://livthelion.tumblr.com) ♥


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